


War

by elumish



Series: Werewolves 101 [17]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub, Implied/Referenced Underage, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Professor Stiles Stilinski, Writer Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-05-15 12:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 74,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5784568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elumish/pseuds/elumish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If the choice is them being smoked out of campus or helping us keep the campus, isn’t one obviously better? And, more to the point, shouldn’t it be their choice?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>She makes a disdainful noise. “Why not?”</p><p>“Because they’ll choose wrong.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Welcome to the second to last class before the final.” Stiles settles on the desk and looks out at the class of about thirty sitting in front of him. “Next class will be review, aka the highest attendance beyond the midterm and the final, and we’re done with the curriculum, so today will be all of the questions that you have about werewolf stuff that wasn’t covered that you’re curious about. I’d prefer you not ask review questions today, because we will inevitably go over them next class. The way the review is going to work is that you can all email me up to three questions. I’ll pick the best ones, or at least the most relevant ones, and we’ll go over those in class next time. If there’s time left over, you’ll be able to ask, but if I have to decide who to answer with a hundred hands up, it’ll be a mess and we’ll never get anything done. You’ll all get an email about that later. So now. Questions. Ask away.”

Fifteen hands go up, and Stiles calls on someone kind of by random. “If Laura Hale runs for president, what party would she run for?”

Oh boy. “That’s a good question. I’ll talk about it, but before that, does someone want to tell me why it’s a good question?”

He calls on someone who hasn’t been to most of the classes, mostly just to see if they actually know what they’re doing, and they say, “Werewolf politicians are non-partisan, especially on the federal level. The Alpha Council doesn’t align itself with any political party. And it’s actually really hard to see the individual votes, because for the most part the only thing announced is the final result, with is one answer.”

“Exactly. Good answer. The thing is that it is actually possible to see where they’ve stood, more or less, and we can also look at the general voting record of the Council. So I’m going to start this with the disclaimer that I have no idea if Laura Hale is planning on running for president, and this is all speculation. There are essentially two problems here, ignoring the will-she-run question. The first is whether or not Hale would run aligned with a party. The second is, if she does, which party would she pick. This is actually a kind of interesting microcosm of the broader werewolf political issue, so I’m going to walk through it a bit.

“First, whether she would run for a party. Anyone know why she would?”

Richard—Richie? Ricky? God, Stiles needs to learn his students’ names—answers, “Money. We’re very much a two party system, and the whole system is based off of that, and you basically can’t get funding if you’re not with either the Democrats or the Republicans.”

“Yep. Now why wouldn’t she?”

It takes a bit for anyone to stick their hand up, which makes sense, because Richard-ichie-icky was right, and the two-party system is the one that they’ve all grown up with is a hard one to think outside of. But finally Cole puts his hand up, a bit tentatively. Stiles points to him. “It makes a statement. Alpha Hale is the most famous of everyone on the Alpha Council, and if she turns herself partisan, it could turn the entire Council partisan, and that would be…complicated.”

Sometimes Stiles wants to buy the kid a pony. “Right. That really is the big question in this situation—if Laura Hale does run for President, would she go with a political party and risk turning the entire Council—and, by extension, the entire political representation of werewolves—partisan? And the answer is that I have no idea. But to move on to your actual question, werewolves tend to lean further left on average than other Americans socially. Fiscally they’re a bit more center, except when it comes to social welfare, in which case the Council has consistently voted about as far left as you can in the U.S. Given what I have been able to find about Hale’s voting record—which, I will admit, is only maybe fifty percent of it—she tends to be just left of center fiscally and pretty far left socially, which means that, if she does run for president—or at least for the nomination—with a political party, it would probably be the democrats. But, obviously, that’s just my guess. Next question?”

The next question is about why werewolves care about social reform, to which the answer is basically, they protect their own and they don’t give up on their children or anyone else’s, and then someone asks, “Why did the HFU shoot at Allison Argent if she’s one of them?”

Stiles, for possibly the first time ever, is struck with the urge to hit a student, and from the expression on Cole’s face, he can smell it. But then Stiles swallows his anger like burned almonds and bile, keeping his breathing even as he hops off the desk to stand in front of it. “There are two things you need to understand, and I’m going to try not to sound too angry about this. One, her name is Allison Agazzi, not Allison Argent. Two, Allison Agazzi got out of the HFU at seventeen, risking her own life and estrangement from her only living parent because she didn’t want to hurt werewolves. Of anybody that you might accuse of being part of the HFU, she’s not the right one to go after.”

Someone else is on their phone, glancing between Stiles and the screen, and he gets a bad feeling just as they say, “This is you, isn’t it? In Isaac Lahey’s Instagram picture right after the shooting, that’s you? And that’s why she was in the classroom, because you’re in her pack.”

Stiles really didn’t want to deal with this, because he’s a professor and doesn’t have tenure and didn’t want this shit to go down, but it’s not really like he has a choice, and he didn’t think he could keep it secret forever. And it’s not that he’s ashamed of his pack, not at all, but he doesn’t want the publicity mess that is Isaac and Allison, especially right now. So he’ll do some damage control and try to minimize this before they all freak out on him. “Technically, it’s Scott McCall’s pack. But yes, I am in the same pack as Isaac Lahey, as those of you who were in that class know, but also Allison Agazzi. So yes, I’m a bit protective of her, but part of that is that it needs to be understood that whatever the HFU has done, it’s not on Allison’s head. Next question?”

The person who asked the original question says, “Well you didn’t actually answer my question. Why shoot at Argent or Agazzi or whatever her name is?”

Apparently they want to talk about the HFU, so they can talk about the HFU. “The problem is your question is predicated on the assumption that Allison was the one being shot at.”

“You’re saying she wasn’t?”

Stiles really doesn’t want to think about the shot, the red splattering across his face and hers, but he swallows down his rising panic to say, “The only reason Allison was hit was because she pushed our Alpha out of the way. The shot was for him, using something that is significantly more harmful to werewolves than to humans. Given that the shooter still hasn’t been identified, we still don’t know if they knew who she was when they fired, but either way, she wasn’t the target.”

“But why go after the school at all?”

It’s all his fault, that’s why, it’s always his fault, and his heart is beating too fast, and his chest hurts, and he’s not going to have a goddamn panic attack in the middle of his class, so he digs his fingers into his leg to give himself something other than the shot there’s always a shot he fucking hates guns and the tree wants him to take the territory but he won’t do it even if it would keep it safe—

“Professor Stilinski?” Cole’s standing, and Jesus, Stiles needs to get a grip. “Are you okay?”

Stiles forces himself to exhale and hop up on the desk, fingers tapping on the side of his leg because he needs to move. “The answer to your question—not you, Cole, I’m fine, thank you, you can sit down—” and Cole hesitates, then lowers himself back down into his chair “is complicated, and to be honest, I don’t have a full answer for why.” Especially because he’s not going to talk to them about the Gerard/Kate mess, not right now. “For those of you who don’t know, the HFU or Hunter’s Federation United, is the oldest anti-werewolf hate group in the United States, and it actually has origins in both France and Mexico.”

One of the kids who hasn’t really shown up before asks, “Aren’t they just a hunting group?”

Oh, Jesus. A human-firster, probably. Though why the hell is he in a werewolf class? “By U.S. law, as of 1947, the only time the hunting of a werewolf is legal—hunting, not killing in self-defense—is when they have been declared rogue by a law enforcement agency and have killed a human. The HFU goes after any werewolf they can, regardless of whether they’re pack aligned or not.”

The presumed human-firster (or at least just asshole) says, “You don’t know that.”

“I’m from Beacon Hills, so yeah, I do, but I was also one of the people who helped Allison Agazzi get out of the HFU. I have had members of the HFU point guns at both of our heads because she wanted to get out. And if you don’t want my own experience, remember the shooting at the Pack Alliance building in New York, which was also done by the HFU. I’m not going to keep talking about this. Next question?”

\--

Stiles drops down onto Derek’s—his and Derek’s, that’s so weird—couch, dropping his arm across his face and groaning. God, he almost liked it better when half his class was missing and they weren’t asking him shitty questions about the HFU. Because he barely likes talking about the HFU with his pack where they know his triggers and can talk him down from a panic attack, and talking about it in front of his class is awful.

“You smell awful.”

Stiles doesn’t move his arm because he doesn’t want to do anything except sleep. He doesn’t even really want food at the moment, or sex, and that’s saying something, but he spent half the night curled up against the headboard trying to sleep because he keeps thinking he’s seeing stiles in the corner of his eye and it’s freaking the fuck out of him, and he’s exhausted. “Thanks.”

Derek’s fingers touch Stiles’s, but he doesn’t try anything any further, which Stiles is glad for, because he really doesn’t want to have to deal with turning him down at the moment. Instead he sits down in a chair, or so it sounds like, but Stiles isn’t going to look. He really doesn’t want touch now, doesn’t want anything, but he has a call with pack in half an hour, and that’s going to fucking suck.

Derek sighs. “You smell like anxiety, and I don’t like it. Are you okay?”

“Not really.”

“You want me to help?”

Stiles thinks about that for a second, and oh god, he can’t deal. “Not really.”

“Okay. I’m just going to sit here and do my work, unless that’ll bother me.”

Stiles can feel Derek sitting there, like an itch at one of his temples, or pressure, and right now he really can’t deal. It’ll drive him nuts, and he just wants to sleep. “Can you…not? Just for a bit. I just need to not deal with people for a little bit before I have to call my pack.”

“Sure.” It sounds like Derek stands up, and then his fingers brush Stiles’s again. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

And then Derek walks out of the room, and Stiles is alone to wallow in the misery of this shittiness that is the situation right now.

And he’s not in too-much-thought panic mode right now, probably because he’s so goddamn tired he can barely think, and he ends up somewhere between asleep and awake, where he’s more or less aware of his surroundings, but he’s not really awake enough to do anything.

It’s just as well, because asleep means dreaming and dreaming means the tree, and awake means panicking, and he really doesn’t want to panic, and this way there’s pain pounding behind one eye and his arm’s falling asleep and he wants to not move for the next month.

But then the alarm on his phone goes off, and he flops his pins-and-needles arm off and then just falls off the couch because he doesn’t really want to get up. Though that hurts, because the floor is hard, and he really needs to get some actual sleep sometime soon.

“You okay?”

Stiles groans, flailing around his phone with his less-asleep arm. “Yeah, I’m good. I’m going to call Scott now. And then sleep for a week.”

“‘Kay.”

Stiles finds his phone on the table and considers getting back up on the couch, but that seems like too much work, so he just leans back against it and dials Scott’s number. Scott picks up after two rings, and then they set up a conference call, and Scott has finally figured out how to work his new phone, oh thank God.

Once everyone’s on, Scott says, “Okay, hi, everyone. Just wanted to have a check in, as you all know, because we have a lot of stuff to figure out. So, I guess, first we need to figure out what we need to figure out. Anyone?”

Nobody says anything for a second, so Stiles starts, “The main things that I know of are figuring out the source of the leak about Allison, figuring out what the tree wants, and figuring out what Kate Argent’s goals are. Lydia, you have anything else?”

They listen to her typing for a second, and then she says, “I think one of our primary concerns, especially the two of us, has to be figuring out how to keep the campus safe. Regardless of what Kate Argent actually wants, if they’re setting stuff on fire and ashing kids into and out of rooms, we need to stop that, and we haven’t been doing a great job.”

Stiles leans his head back against the couch cushion, closing his eyes. “I know, but I don’t know what we can do. We can’t be everywhere at once, especially with just the two of us, and I’m not big on bringing kids in on this.”

“We did it when we were kids, running patrols, even the two of us.”

Stiles shoves his free hand through his hair, and it’s still pins and needles, and it hurts, and he doesn’t have a shit. “And it fucked us up, and I would rather be shot myself than do what we did to ourselves to these kids.”

Scott makes a noise. “We didn’t turn out that bad.”

“When was the last time you slept through the night? Someone other than the wonder trio answer that.”

Lydia sighs. “I get your point. But if the choice is them being smoked out of campus or helping us keep the campus, isn’t one obviously better? And, more to the point, shouldn’t it be their choice?”

“No.”

She makes a disdainful noise. “Why not?”

“Because they’ll choose wrong.” Stiles drops his head down onto his knees. “We can talk about this later. I just spent my entire 101 class being interrogated on the HFU; I really don’t want to think about kids with guns to their heads right now.”

“Okay.” Scott claps his hands, which doesn’t come through well over the speakers. “Do we have a plan for dealing with anything else?”

Stiles sighs, sitting up and opening his eyes again. “Derek and I have an idea for dealing with the Argent thing, but you’re not going to like it.”

\--

The car ride is three hours long, and Stiles doesn’t know if he’s ever wished more to not be in a car in his life. Like, he would actually consider opening the door and throwing himself out of it if he thought it would help. But it wouldn’t, and they need to do this, and there’s no way in hell he’s letting Derek do this alone.

“You okay?”

Derek doesn’t look away from the road as it speeds past. “I’m fine.”

Well, that sounded convincing. “If you’re not okay, we can do this another time.”

Derek shakes his head just a little, a quick aborted movement. “If we turn around, I’m not coming back, if only because Laura will lock me up for the next year. I’m not going to freak out. It’s fine.”

It doesn’t sound fine, but Stiles knows better than anyone that sometimes pushing isn’t the answer. Not that he’s all that good at actually following through on that, because he pushes a lot, and too hard, and too far, and god knows how anyone ever decided to hire him to teach, but he’ll stop for now.

“Speaking of Laura, my 101 kids want to know what political party Laura wants to run for if she runs for president.”

Derek groans, but there’s something almost like a smile on his face, so it’s okay. “If nobody mentions Laura running for president again, it’ll be too soon.”

“You don’t talk to people; who’s been mentioning her running for president? Also, does that mean she’s not running?”

“The TV. The internet. My editor. My editor brought up Laura running for president, and they don’t even know who I am. And I don’t know if Laura’s going to run for president, because Laura doesn’t know if Laura’s going to run for president, and the whole thing is ridiculous, because nobody’s going to elect a werewolf anyway.”

That’s quite a speech, Stiles wants to say, but now, that would be a bad idea, make Derek clam up and Stiles won’t get another word out of him for days.

But before he can figure out what actually would be an appropriate response, Derek turns into a parking lot, and they’re there.

Security takes forever to get through, and Derek is practically shaking by the end of it, but Stiles doesn’t know if he wants him to hold his hand, so he just bumps up against him and doesn’t complain when Derek starts doing the weird herding thing werewolves are so fond of.

They stop right outside the door, Stiles turning to look at Derek. “Are you going to be okay? We can turn around right now and walk out of here, and nobody will blame you.”

Derek shakes his head. “Come on.”

The door opens in front of them, and Stiles leads into the visiting room, Derek’s hand pressed against his back under his shirt.

Across the table, Kate Argent smiles at them. “Hello, sweetie. Look how grown up you are.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for referenced abusive adult-teenage relationship, general sexual creepiness, and Kate Argent in general.

Stiles sweeps forward to sit down in front of Kate, Derek following behind, and she transfers her attention to him. “You must be the Sheriff’s kid. Stilinski, is it?”

That’s disconcerting, though he tries not to let it show. “Yes.” Derek sits down in the chair next to him, knocking their knees together, and Stiles nudges back, resting his leg against Derek’s. And then he asks, “What do you want?”

One of her eyebrows goes up. “You were the one who arranged this little get together. Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“Not with this meeting; why are you attacking the school? What do you want?”

“What makes you think I want anything?”

This is a gamble, but he’s always been a gambler, so he says, “Allison knows people.”

The smirk on Kate’s face shifts into something angrier, something moving behind her eyes like she’s thinking about how best to go about killing him. Thank god for handcuffs. “Does she, now? Little Allison, traitor and glow-whore. My father should have shot her where she stood.”

Unexpectedly, Derek says, “You’d know all about that,” and there’s something very not good in his expression, something that says they’re going to have a long night with very little sleep ahead of them.

Kate turns her attention back to him, and the come-hither-so-I-can-feed-you-your-entrails look is back. “Not a traitor, sweetie. Just not on your side.”

“I wasn’t talking about the traitor part.”

“Aw, hon, that was just my job.”

The corner of his lip curls up, and it’s not a happy look. “Yeah, and how much did you get paid to fuck me? How much did you sell your body for?”

For just a second, her face goes flat. “Life.” And then she looks at Stiles. “You’ve given our little kitty some claws. Why do you think I would tell you anything?”

Stiles doesn’t know why Derek baiting her worked, and honestly, he doesn’t really want to think about it, so he just says, “Because I saw the recordings of you on the stand. And what’s the point in having an evil plan if there’s nobody to brag to about it?”

“You’re cute; I like you.” And that’s terrifying. “We’re doing what we always do; _nous chassons ceux qui—_ ”

“— _nous chassent_ , I know that. But none of them are hunting you, especially not those kids. So why go after my school?”

“Oh, that?” She shrugs. “That was totally accidental, to begin with. It was just a school known for its werewolf studies program, and an easy target. But the fact that Derry-poo’s boyfriend teaches there—that was just the icing on the cake. And poor little Laura, walking out for the whole world to see without any protection, she made it so easy. Pity she survived.”

Derek almost lunges out of the seat, and Stiles clamps down hard on his thigh. It’s not enough to stop him if he really wants to move, but it’s enough to remind him that that’s not a good idea. And after a second, Derek shifts back into his chair, exhaling. “I’m not sixteen anymore.”

She licks her lips. “No, you’re not. Want to come over here, big boy, and show me, or do you only take it up the ass, now?”

Now Stiles wants to hit her, or maybe shoot her, so he makes himself take a deep breath, fingers digging into Derek’s leg. “Your evil plan. That’s it? You’re just attacking a school for the hell of it? Wow, I expected something a little more elaborate.”

“Oh no, there’s more. I’m just not going to tell it to you. A girl can’t give away all her secrets, can she? Guard.”

\--

Derek doesn’t say anything until they’re almost back at his place, and that’s a really fucking long drive for silence, when he says, “I need to be alone.”

Stiles wants to argue, he really does, but Derek looks like he’s holding on by a thread, knuckles white on the steering wheel, shoulders hunched, so all he says is, “Okay. I’ll be around if you need me. I’ll be grading papers, so distract me whenever you want.”

Derek nods sharply, fingers flexing on the steering wheel, and okay, not talking anymore. And to be fair, things are a bit of a mess in Stiles’s head now too, and while keeping them in his head isn’t necessarily a great idea, saying them aloud is going to be a lot worse. So he keeps his mouth shut, hand open and loose on his leg so Derek can hold if he wants to but not really expecting him to. Because Derek is sitting like everything hurts, and there’s a chance touch might set him off.

Which, right now, would be bad.

By the time they get inside, Derek’s shoulders are basically up to his ears, and he kicks off his shoes and heads straight into his office, shutting the door behind him. Stiles grabs his school stuff and drops down on the couch, setting papers out to start grading.

He mostly has his pop culture papers to grade, which is good because they’re interesting but bad because they’re really fucking long. Which is his own fault, he knows, but it’s a high enough level course that he can’t just give them a five page paper for their final paper. And more than that, the papers are worth a huge part of the students’ grades, which means he needs to be really careful when it comes to grading because he had enough teachers give arbitrary grades in college to want to be better. Because if he can’t keep these kids safe, he at least wants to be able to help them graduate.

And he can’t keep doing it, suddenly, because goddamn it he wants to be able to keep them safe, and seeing Kate Argent really didn’t help his state of mind because all he can see now is little sixteen-year-old Derek in the police station after the fire—and Stiles saw him, he was there, because his mom was sick and his dad didn’t want to let him out of his sight—sitting in a chair with his too-long legs pulled up to his chest, soot smeared across his cheekbone, staring at the wall in front of him as Laura talked to Stiles’s dad. And Stiles had wanted to go over to him and give him a hug, because that was what his mom did when he was sad or when Scott was sad because Scott’s dad was being mean and shouting, but his dad had told him not to.

Stiles really doesn’t want to keep thinking about that, so he shoves all of his stuff into a rough pile on the table and heads into the kitchen to start baking. He gets two batches of cookies in—he’s mixing faster than he can cook, so he has bowls and trays of cookie dough all over the kitchen—when he runs out of flour, so he switches to flourless chocolate cake, and he knows it’s ridiculous, because they don’t need like 80 cookies and some cake, even if Derek eats like he hasn’t gotten near food in a month, but the second he stops baking he’s going to freak himself out because holy fuck he just went with Derek to see Kate Argent and that was a really fucking bad idea, so he’s going to keep baking until they have no more ingredients in the apartment.

And then he might go out and get more, and whatever, he’ll just feed it to his students. College students always like sugar. And free food.

Everything is out of the oven except for the cake when Derek comes out, walks over to the sink without even looking at Stiles, and starts scrubbing at his hands, which, okay, bad sign. Stiles walks over to him, standing just far enough away so as not to accidentally bump into him, because it’s not really clear if Derek wants touch yet.

“You okay?”

Derek flinches, squeezing out some more soap onto his hands and going back to scrubbing, going all the way up to his forearms now. “I knew she was a hunter, you know. I liked that, because rogues are bad, you know, rogues that can be hunted, and I liked the idea that a woman who was strong enough to take them down wanted me.” He sounds disbelieving even now, like he doesn’t understand how anyone could want him, and god, Derek. “She said we shouldn’t tell my pack because of the age thing, but it was probably because my parents, Peter, the rest of them, they knew about the Argents. They knew who she was then, and they would have told me, and she couldn’t have that. And I just went along with it, and she killed them. I killed them.” He’s just scrubbing now, all of the soap gone, and Stiles can see his arms starting to turn pink.

“You didn’t kill them.” Derek open his mouth like he wants to say something, but no, not happening. Stiles isn’t going to let him keep saying it’s his fault because that bitch assaulted him. “I’m serious, Derek. None of it, none of what happened, is your fault. She took advantage of you, she used you, and none of that is your fault.”

Derek opens his mouth again, then closes it, and Stiles waits because he doesn’t want to keep pushing. And then, finally, he says, “Can we—you don’t have to, but can we just…go to bed?”

Stiles has a feeling he’s not talking about sex, which is fine. “Of course.” He reaches over and turns off the water, which is just running now, half an inch from Derek’s hand, then touches Derek’s wrist. Derek doesn’t move away, which is a good sign. “Can I have your hand?”

Derek grabs his hand so hard it almost hurts a little, then reaches around and wraps his entire body around him, breathing a spot of heat against his shoulder and leaving wetness behind from his hands. “Thank you. Thank you, god, thank you.”

Stiles wants to hug him back but his arms are trapped so he just says, “You’re welcome. I love you.”

Derek makes a noise, then hoists him up, Stiles wrapping his legs around his waist, and carries him into the bedroom, where he drops him down on the bed, climbing on top of him. He’s heavy, so heavy he’s almost crushing him, and Stiles really doesn’t give a shit. Because it makes him feel safe, his back pressed against the bed, Derek on top of him, like nothing can get to him.

Dimly, sometime later, he hears the timer go off, and he pushes at Derek a little; Derek hasn’t moved in a while, neither of them have, just lying there breathing, and it feels great, but, “I need to get up.”

Derek sucks on his neck, a little, and Stiles would stay, but the timer is still going, too loud to ignore. “Nngh.”

“If I don’t get that out we’re going to have a brick of charcoal in your oven” and it’ll catch your house on fire, but he doesn’t say that, wouldn’t. “I’ll come back, I promise.”

Derek laves at his neck for another second, then rolls off onto his back, and Stiles scrambles off of the bed before he changes his mind. “Come back.”

“I will.” And then he scrambles out of the room before he does something stupid like get back in bed and offer to blow Derek with the timer still going in the kitchen. He rushes through pulling the cake out and then has to stop because he has no idea where the hell to put it because there’s baked goods all over the kitchen, so he just sticks it on the stove, shuts the oven off, and heads back into the bedroom.

Where Derek is watching him, and the look in his eyes in needy but not in a sex way. Which is good, because Stiles is honestly not sure if he could do sex right now. Not with the thought of adult Kate Argent with teenage Derek. So Stiles just climbs back in with him, curling up against his side, and it’s nowhere near their normal time to sleep and neither of them have eaten in a while but he really isn’t up for doing anything, because today really sucked.

Derek puts his hand in Stiles’s hair, even though that must be super uncomfortable to have his arm like that, and sighs. “I’m going to have to tell Laura I did that.”

That’s one conversation Stiles is glad to not have to take part in. He doesn’t even want to be a fly on the wall for it, and not only because Laura still kind of terrifies him despite his bluster. “Good luck.”

Derek laughs, and the sound is kind of hoarse. “No offer to help?”

“Hell, no. Your sister—or your uncle, Jesus—will probably eviscerate me. Literally.”

His fingers tangle in Stiles’s hair, pulling a little. “I’d protect you.”

“I’d still bet on your sister. Sorry.”

Derek sighs. “Yeah, so would I.” His fingers start moving Stiles’s hair around, just a little, and it feels fantastic. “I just want to sleep.”

“Okay.”

“We should change.”

“Yeah.”

They fall asleep still laying there, Derek’s thumb tracing a line back and forth across Stiles’s forehead.

\--

The Nemeton is in front of him, stiles sitting on top of it, gray and exhausted, bandages dangling from his hands, grinning. “They would let you take it, you know? They love you. And you wouldn’t need to kick them out or become their alpha. A benevolent dictatorship.”

Stiles stands as far away as he can, but like running and never getting where you’re going, he can never get far enough away, and it feels like just a few steps and he would be at the tree. “I don’t want to be a benevolent dictatorship. And I’m human. I can’t take territory.” He steps back, walking, walking, and it doesn’t look like the Nemeton is moving, but he’s not getting any further away. “I don’t want the territory?”

stiles shrugs. “But I do.” He unfolds himself from the tree, hopping off of it, and then he’s in front of Stiles, one hand going up to Stiles’s neck, bandages dangling down, and they wrap around his throat, and he’s choking, choking—

He wakes to screaming, and it takes a second to realize that it’s not him, it’s Derek, Derek who’s thrashing around, screaming bloody murder, and there’s no way Stiles is going to be able to pin him so he scrambles away, down to the end of the bed and then off and around so he can reach Derek’s face. He puts a hand on his cheek, and Derek thrashes away, clipping Stiles in the shoulder, and fuck, that hurts. He has to get Derek awake, though, so he puts his hand back on Derek’s face, saying, “Derek, hey, you need to wake up. It’s okay, you’re safe, we’re all safe, you’re okay, but I need you to wake up.”

Derek quiets a bit, then stills, eyes popping open to stare up at the ceiling. He’s breathing hard.

Oh thank god.

Stiles sinks down onto the ground, his shoulder starting to throb as his adrenaline fades. He’s definitely going to be bruised, and honestly, he’s probably lucky it’s not dislocated. He rests his forehead against the side of the bed, trying to catch his breath, because he can still feel the bandages, and he needs his shirt off _now_ , so he strips it off, dropping it down next to him, and he can smell the sourness of his own fear.

Derek rolls on the bed. “Stiles?”

Stiles flops one hand up on the bed, not really sure where it lands. “’m here. Just give me a sec.”

Derek’s hand touches his. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

His other hand is still clutching his shoulder, whoops, that’s going to be fun to explain, but he pulls his head back to look at Derek, shaking it slightly. “No, I’m good. Just need to catch my breath. Not your fault. Are you okay? You seemed pretty—”

“Yeah.” Derek sits up, sliding to the headboard, and his entire upper body looks like it’s covered in sweat. “I, uh—the fire. I need to call Laura. I need to…call Laura.”

It’s 3:12 in the morning, according to Derek’s phone as he hands it over. Derek doesn’t seem to be able to dial, given how badly his hand is shaking, and he does it by voice control, his other hand clutching Stiles’s.

Laura picks up almost immediately, or so Stiles is assuming given it’s only a couple seconds before Derek says, “You were burning. Peter was burning and you were burning and Cora’s—Cora—all of you were burning.” Stiles can’t hear Laura’s response, but Derek’s hand tightens on his almost to the point of pain, then relaxes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so—I’m so—Cora. She—I’m sorry.”

There’s silence for another second, and then Derek pulls the phone away from his ear to put it down on the bed, switching on speaker phone, and Stiles hears Laura say, “Stiles, are you there?” She sounds as awake as if it was three in the afternoon.

“Yeah.” He sounds a bit hoarse, and ugh, his shoulder really does hurt.

She sighs. “Can I ask you to do something kind of weird?”

Oh, god, Stiles is just not up for this. “Okay. Maybe. Ask.”

“Can you show Derek that you’re not burned? Hands, arms, chest, back, whatever.”

Derek straightens a little. “I don’t—”

“Shut up. I would remind him that we’re okay, but I’m not there, and he needs to see it.”

Stiles can do that. He levers himself to his feet, pulling his hand away so he can present his chest to Derek, then his back, and he doesn’t even need to take off his shirt. Hooray for nightmares about being strangled.

Derek’s hand touches his back as he turns, and he stays where he is, honestly glad for it because that way maybe Derek won’t be able to see the bruise that’s starting to form or the way he probably looks god-awful. And once this is done, he’s going to go not sleep for a month, until the tree gets that he’s not going to take the goddamn neutral territory.

“Can you see it?” Stiles starts slightly, nerves raw, because he had honestly forgotten Laura was on the line. “Can you see that the people you love are alive?”

Derek makes a noise, and Stiles wants to turn around to look at him, but he also kind of doesn’t, because he’s not totally sure what expression his face is making at the moment. “How did you—”

“If you couldn’t talk about Cora, you wouldn’t have been able to say it with him. And you’ve dreamed about it before. She’ll never touch any of us again.”

Stiles feels Derek flinch, hand twitching against his back. “I went to see her. Yesterday. With Stiles.”

Aw, fuck. Laura’s voice goes up like fifty decibels. “You—” He can practically hear her clenching her teeth, and then her voice quiets again. “We’ll talk about this later, when you’re okay. But believe me, we will talk about this.”

“Yes, Alpha.”

“Jesus, Derek. _Jesus_. Okay. I’m going to call you again when it’s not so early, and we’re going to talk. Good night, Stiles.”

“Night.”

The phone clicks off, and Derek’s palm settles on his spine. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles doesn’t turn around yet, mostly because he’s not sure if he can bring himself to. God, he feels awful. “’s okay. We all have nightmares.”

“You want to go back to sleep?”

That is literally the last thing he wants to do. “I think I’m just going to sit down against the wall. Or the bed. Or whatever.”

“Is it—”

Stiles shakes his head, and his hand is back up at his shoulder without him really realizing he put it there. “I have things in my head I don’t want there, too. Can I just—I’ll have that conversation after you talk to Laura, okay. I can’t right now.”

“Stiles—”

“Yellow.”

Derek backs off even though it wasn’t a red, which he appreciates, because Stiles really just can’t right now. He grabs his phone and his headphones from the nightstand and picks something fast with words to drown everything out, then drops down with this back against the side of the bed, closes his eyes, and tries to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It will get happier, I promise. Sad things just needed to happen first.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Panic happens.

When Stiles opens his eyes, it’s light out, the apartment smells like bacon, and his phone is dead. Derek got up a while ago, stepping around Stiles so they didn’t touch, and Stiles isn’t sure if he’s glad for the consideration or not. Because he’s feeling skin hungry now, calmer but itching like he’s about to climb out of his skin. He’s not really sure if Derek is up for that now, though, so he won’t bring it up.

He goes to the bathroom and changes, but he can still feel the bandages around his neck, itching, contracting, and okay, no shirt for the moment.

Derek has his back to the door when Stiles walks in, and his shoulders are tight. Stiles stops a few feet behind him. “Hey.”

Derek turns around, smiling at him. It’s sitting a bit oddly on his face, like he’s not sure what to do with his muscles, and god, Stiles wants him to be okay. “What did you dream about?”

Aw, Jesus. “Did you talk to Laura?”

“A little while ago. What did you dream about?”

Okay. “The tree, uh, it wants me to take the territory. That’s what I was dreaming out. That’s most of what I’ve been dreaming about, for the last while.”

Derek blinks at him, the smile dropping a bit like he’s forgotten to keep it up. “The territory? But it’s neutral, and you’re—well, you’re human.”

“Perfectly aware of that, thank you. I don’t—I don’t know why it thinks it would work, and I’m not going to take the territory. I wouldn’t even if I could. I don’t want it. And I really don’t want to keep talking about this.” It’s making his skin crawl just thinking about it, the fucking tree, the territory, the whole fucking thing, and he really doesn’t want to talk about it or think about it or—

“Okay, whoa.” Derek takes a step towards him, then freezes, which is not really helping right now; Stiles feels like his insides flinch. Because his body has decided it really needs touch, and of course this is when Derek starts treating him like a leper. “What’s wrong?”

“I—”  His back feels open now, exposed, like stiles can just walk up behind him and wrap the bandages around his neck, and he backs up to shove his back against the nearest wall, pressing a hand against his bruised shoulder. On one hand, he’s kind of glad this anxiety is delayed, because at least he could deal with Derek last night and get through the night without freaking out, but his breathing is coming faster now, and he feels vulnerable.

Derek walks up towards him to stand in front of him, but it’s _not close enough_ , and Stiles doesn’t know if Derek wants to touch him, and he doesn’t want to make him, because he doesn’t know if he wants him, doesn’t know why anyone would want someone with a demonic tree in his head, a tree that’s trying to get him to take over the only safe place for all of these kids, a tree that might succeed.

“Color.”

Stiles sucks in a breath, and it sounds shaky. “Yellow. Fuck. Yellow.” He drops down to the ground, knees up in front of him, back pressed as hard up against the wall as he can get it. “Jesus.”

Derek crouches down in front of him, hand touching his cheek, and oh thank god. Stiles lets out a shuddering breath, but he’s still shaking, can still feel the bandaged wrapped around his throat. “Hey. Okay. I’m going to help you. Do you trust me?”

“Always trust you. Jesus. Don’t touch my neck. Please don’t touch my neck.”

“Okay. Close your eyes.”

Oh God. “I can’t—”

“What color is closing your eyes?”

“Yellow.”

“Why?”

“Because then it can get me, it can get to me, it can—”

Derek closes his hand over Stiles’s mouth, gently but firmly. “Do you trust me to keep you safe? Just nod or shake your head.” Stiles nods. “I will keep you safe. Close your eyes.” Stiles closes his eyes, and Derek slides his hand down to Stiles’s hand, skipping over his neck. Which is good, because otherwise Stiles might actually freak out. “We’re going to stand up and walk to the couch. I’m going to walk behind you. You will keep your hands behind your back. If you open your eyes, I will blindfold you. If you move your hands, I will tie them. Color?”

Stiles takes in an experimental breath. This is helping, kind of, but also he’s still kind of freaked out, and these have been a bad past few weeks. “Yellow-green.”

“Okay. Stand up.” It takes Stiles a second, but he gets himself up to his feet, using his free hand to brace himself. It’s hard with his eyes closed, but Derek doesn’t let go, and Stiles can feel the heat of him, the presence. “Hands behind your back.”

That requires stepping away from the wall, which Stiles isn’t sure he’s up for, but Derek told him to, so he leans his lower back away enough to put his hands there, which necessitates letting go of Derek, which he really wants to do. But almost immediately, Derek turns him, putting one hand on Stiles’s back to lead him, and he trusts Derek, trusts him not to walk him into whatever is in the room.

They walk for a bit, the texture of the floor changing under his feet from hard to carpet, and then Derek says, “Stop.” Stiles stops. “We’re going to be on the couch. Do you want to be in my lap or under me?”

“I—” His brain _flickers_ like it’s not sure what the fuck it’s supposed to be doing, and a shiver runs through his entire body, because goddamn it, but he’s a mess. The dream didn’t help, and neither did seeing Kate Argent, or thinking of her fucking Derek over in the most literal of senses, and he really is due for another freak out, and as long as he doesn’t start hallucinating the tree or stiles or whatever the fuck else he would hallucinate, he should be fine. “Uh. I—”

“You will be under me. You will move your hands above your head and keep them there. Color?”

“Green.” Derek guides him, moving his limbs for him, and he doesn’t do anything except go where Derek puts him because right now he just can’t, because if he starts moving he’s not going to be able to stop, and he can’t do that, he can’t, he can’t deal with that right now, and then he’s on his back on the couch with his arms above his head and Derek on top of him and it’s what he wants, it’s almost enough, it’s almost, he needs the touch, the pressure, being covered so he knows he’s safe but he’s suffocating, he’s drowning, he’s, “Oh, god. Oh god oh god oh god oh god ohgodohgodohgodohgodoh—”

“Stiles, you have to breathe.” The hand not pinning down his wrist touches his face, and his eyes pop open for him to see Derek’s face right in front of his, so close it’s blurry. “Stiles, breathe.”

Stiles sucks in a breath and tries to say he’s okay, and what comes out is, “I don’t know how to not be scared, I’m always scared, I’m always so goddamn scared, and it could make me take the territory and I don’t know if I could stop it and I don’t know if I would stop it and I’m not that good a person, you know, I’m not good enough to turn down power if I think I need it, so if it pushes me far enough in a corner I’m going to say yes, and you can’t let me do that, you can’t let me say yes, you have to promise me you won’t let me say yes, because I don’t know how I can live with myself if I say yes, please, promise me, promise me, oh god.”

Derek leans down to kiss him, hard and possessive, and Stiles breathes into it, panting, chest heaving. “I won’t let you hurt yourself.”

“That’s not the same thing, that’s not the same—I need someone to promise me that they’ll stop me if I try to take this territory, if I can take this territory. I need someone to promise me that. Goddamn it, I need to—I need to stop thinking, I need to stop, I need you to help me stop, please.”

“Okay. I’m going to take you into the bedroom and tie you down, and then I’m going to make you stop thinking. Color?”

“Mmm.”

Derek shakes his head, blurry and shadowed. “I need a color, Stiles, or I can’t do this.”

Stiles breathes again, tries to speak, and it’s just a whine, so he swallows, tries again. “Green. Green. Please.”

“Okay.” Derek moves _no no come back_ and then his arms are around Stiles and he’s carrying him, and Stiles’s eyes are closed again because he doesn’t want to see, looking means he can see, he doesn’t want to see. And then he’s on the bed, and there’s rope going around his hands, his wrists, his arms, his chest, and he’s on his back with his arms him front of him and Derek on top of him and he can’t move doesn’t want to move doesn’t need to move and something goes still.

Stiles breathes.

Derek looks him in the eye, and he’s blurry, and Stiles knows he could focus his eyes but doesn’t want to, does need to, and he’s not going to close them yet because that’s too much effort, so he just looks and breathes.

“Color?”

Stiles breathes. “Green.” His voice is slower, or maybe his ears are, and he almost cares, but there are too many cares and they’re all on top of each other and that one gets lost.

Derek’s hand touches his bare stomach, near one of the ropes, and Stiles jolts. “I’m going to make you come, and you’re just going to lay there. Color?”

That’s wrong. He tries to move but can’t, and then says, “I sh’d—I should get you off. I want to make you feel good.”

Derek leans down to suck on his hipbone, and that feels good, warm and wet and just a little bit of teeth. “Making you feel good makes me happy.”

“But you were sad.” His brain’s not working as well now, and he thinks maybe his eyes are closed, and the almost-caring flares up again and then dies. But this part matters. “You were sad, and I want to make you not sad.”

“You do.” Derek’s tongue traces along the edge of the rope, and a noise comes from Stiles’s throat. “You make me so happy, you don’t even know. I never thought I would get this, never thought I would be able to be this happy, but you make me happy, and I want to make you feel good. You haven’t given me a color.”

“Green.”

Derek’s hands go to his pants, pushing them down, and then there’s heat on his dick, and wetness, and he loses himself a little bit in the pleasure and the feeling of safety, of knowing that Derek is right there, with him, and he doesn’t have to go anywhere right now or do anything and he can’t do what he doesn’t want to do because he can’t move, can’t go anywhere, and he’s just there, he’s safe, he’s safe.

But then Derek is moving away from him and he tries to follow but can’t, and he doesn’t want him to go, doesn’t want him to leave, _no, no, please,_ except he knows why Derek is leaving, because why would he want to be near Stiles, why would anyone want to be near Stiles when there’s a demon in his head that’s trying to take over a territory that Derek lives in and he keeps hallucinating a tree and it’s him the tree is him the tree has always been him.

“Hey, hey, shh, it’s okay.” Derek’s hand touches his face. “Okay, shh, I’m going to get you out, I’ll get you out, but you have to stop struggling or you’re going to hurt yourself.”

But if he lets him out then he’ll leave and Stiles doesn’t want him to leave, doesn’t want him to “No, please, please, don’t go, please don’t leave me.”

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, I’m not going anywhere.” His hands move to Stiles’s side, over the ropes—there are ropes, Stiles had forgotten there were ropes. “Can you open your eyes for me?” It takes Stiles a second because he isn’t sure where his eyes are, isn’t sure how to use them, but then he gets them open, and it’s blurry over him, blurry white and gray. “That’s a good boy. You’re still really far down, aren’t you? Okay, I’ll leave you tied up for the minute. I was just getting water, because you’re probably thirsty. Open your mouth for me, will you, good boy.” Stiles opens his mouth, and there’s a glass against his lips and water in his mouth. “Swallow.”

“Don’ go anywhere. Please.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m never going anywhere. Do you know how much I love you? I love you so much, because you gave me something I never thought I would have, and you’ve never tried to hurt me or get anything from me. You never think I should be giving you things, so I want to give you everything.”

\--

Stiles surveys the kitchen and is not sure if horrified if ever the right response when looking at cookies, but holy shit, this is a lot of cookies.

“I guess this is why we ran out of flour.”

Derek looks up from where he’s playing with his phone. “Hmm?”

Stiles gestures towards the expanse of cookies—plus one cake, but that cake has no flour, so it doesn’t count—with his chin. “That. There are—I thought I made eighty, max. There are like a hundred and fifty in here, which also, wow, I must have spent a longer time baking than I thought.”

“I like cookies.”

Stiles snorts, pulling out containers from one of the cabinets—and knowing where everything in Derek’s cabinets is shouldn’t give him this much of a thrill—and starting to fill them with cookies. “Yeah, well, even you can’t eat this many cookies before they go stale. I’ll bring a bunch of them to my 101 final and feed my students.”

Derek looks at him. “Is that allowed?”

Stiles shrugs. “Eh, they’re adults, and I’ll just list the ingredients on the containers. Also, I know you saw me at the end of finals season last semester, but I’m basically going to stop sleeping and drink way too much coffee, and that’s okay. Like, totally fine. By which I mean if you try to stop me I will probably get annoyed at you. Just as forewarning.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, though know that I’m not just going to let you work yourself to death.”

“I’m not going to—look, I’ll be fine.”

“Over the spring you passed out.”

“I—” only vaguely remember actually passing out, which is kind of awkward, though he does remember waking up in the apartment, and wow, that was a long time ago. “That is not an awful point, I will concede that. But now I’m eating healthy-ish food regularly, so there’s that. Anyway, my point is, I will be kind of awful to be around for a while, and I’ll do my best, but also sorry in advance.”

Derek opens his mouth to say something, then closes it, and then finally he sighs. “Maybe you should talk to your pack. Or someone. About the, uh.” He waves one of his hands.

“You mean about my freak out earlier? My pack knows, and to some degree there’s nothing they can do about it. And talking to other people—I’ve done that, but we have too many secrets, ones that you know but that—look, I killed a man, a rogue, and yes he was declared, but you can only legally be a hunter at eighteen. And the stuff in my head, it’s not something that people can know. I—look, believe me, it’s not my idea of a good time, but neither is lying to a therapist.”

“Okay.” Derek sighs, checking his phone. “You want takeout? I don’t feel up to cooking right now.”

“Chinese?”

“Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit shorter than usual. Sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been changed. Check them out.

“Being passed around are boxes with bluebooks, test sheets, and cookies. Take one of each. The ingredients are on the cookie box; if you’re allergic to anything in them, don’t eat one.”

Someone sticks there hand up, and Stiles points at them. “What if we’re allergic to the test sheets?”

“Then you should have submitted a disability accommodation request at the beginning of the semester.” Stiles watches the boxes—one paper one and one cookie one on each side of room—go around for another few seconds, making their way down from the back of the room where he started them, then says, “You’ll have the full time for this test, and you’re totally welcome to use it if you want. You only need to answer two of the essay questions, so please, read the instructions. If you’re done before the end of time, hand in your test worksheet and bluebook and then you can go. It’s fine to write on the test sheet, because I change them every semester. Any questions?” Nobody raises their hand, most of them filling out the front of their bluebooks, and everyone has one at this point, so Stiles says, “If you have any questions during the test, come down and ask me. Begin.”

Everyone opens their test sheets almost in unison like in some B-movie and then starts frantically writing, which one is a really goddamn annoying sound and two means it’s the start of him having to sit and not do anything. Which is not his favorite thing to do, but he definitely can’t do it sitting on the desk, so he grabs the boxes and brings them back to the desk, then sits down behind the desk for the first time that semester.

He still has essays to grade (he always has essays to grade) so he pulls them out and starts organizing them in alphabetical order by student surname because otherwise it’s a bitch to put his grades in once he’s done. Then he picks up his first paper (Zack Allen: Portrayal of Non-Werewolf Creatures in Fiction) and starts reading.

It’s actually not a bad paper, though it’s written operating on the incorrect assumption that werewolves are the only supernatural creatures that are actually real, which isn’t super surprising given the—often intentional—lack of information about non-werewolves in the media and in academia. It makes some interesting points about the difference in the othering between werewolves and non-werewolves, as well as some racial associations with specific creatures (aka vampires are always white, which is kind of funny mostly because they’re one of the few creatures that show up a lot that Stiles is pretty sure doesn’t exist).

Stiles halfway through Alexa Murdoch’s paper on the feminization of male betas in 1960s werewolf literature, which is interesting but not really what he wants to be reading about at the moment, when Cole turns in his test. He’s the first one done, which isn’t all that surprising given that this is his life that he’s writing about.

“Thanks, Professor.”

Stiles nods, shifting things around the desk so there’s space for Cole to put the bluebook and test paper down. “Glad to have you in my class. If you ever have any questions next semester, feel free to stop by my office.”

Cole smiles back, heading out of the room.

“You have an hour left.” Stiles writes that up on the board, then sits back down to go through more essays. If nothing else, this time ensures he gets his work done. Also, thank god he (mostly) grew out of his ADHD, because otherwise he would never be able to do this. Honestly, it’s a miracle he got through his PhD.

In the next fifteen minutes, a few dozen people hand in their papers—and, in one case, a cookie and a sheepish smile, which, okay, whatever—and then it dies off to a trickle of one every few minutes. Which is fine with him.

Twenty minutes before the end of the test, forty-two students are still there, and a dozen phones go off simultaneously. Which he would get pissed about, except his is vibrating in his pocket too, and when he pulls it out, he sees:

11:15 AM NCU Public Safety to Stiles Stilinski: Campus is now on lockdown. Remain where you are and lock all doors. Details to follow.

Oh, shit. Stiles hurries over to lock the door, pulling up Lydia’s number to text her. But before he can begin typing, his phone rings. He really doesn’t want to answer his phone in the middle of his final, but with what’s going on, and especially given that it’s Public Safety calling, he has to.

“Stiles Stilinski.”

“Dr. Stilinski, we have you on record as being an ashbreaker who can break druid-keyed mountain ash.”

Fuck. “I’m in the middle of proctoring an exam. What’s going on?”

“We have a, uh…an injured werewolf student who we can’t get to because of mountain ash around him that we can’t pass. We’re not letting anyone on or off of campus if we can help it, so we need someone on campus.”

Oh, Jesus, please let it not be Cole. “There’s another member of my pack who is druid trained and who should be on campus. I’ll have her contact you within the next couple of minutes.”

He calls Lydia as soon as he hangs up, standing as close to the door as he can so as not to disrupt his students more. They’re all working on the test, still, but in a way that makes it clear they’re listening to his every word.

She picks up with, “What’s going on?”

“You on campus?”

“Yeah. What do you need?”

Stiles sighs. “Public Safety needs an ashbreaker, and I’m in a final.” Which he knows she’ll take to mean he can’t give more details. “Call them with your ashbreaker creds. And text me when you have details.”

“You want me to call Scott?”

Oh, Scott is not going to be happy. “We don’t have time for an argument.”

“I’ll ask forgiveness. Be safe.”

“Be safe.” He hangs up but doesn’t pocket his phone, heading back to his desk. “Fifteen minutes left. After you hand the test in, please sit back down quietly and don’t have an electronics out until the testing time ends.”

That gets a reaction, but they all have tests to finish, so they buckle down and keep working.

Lydia doesn’t text for five minutes, six, seven, and he’s ready to head out there and find her himself when his phone goes off on his desk.

11:27 AM Lydia Martin to Stiles Stilinski: Ashbreak done. Werewolf shot. Probably dead. W/Police. Safe. Will find when campus opens. Call your boyfriend when you can.

Right. Yes. Not that Derek watches the news regularly, but he does it enough to matter.

The last person hands their test in two minutes before the end of the period, and immediately Stiles tells them, “Check your phones and then get in contact with your loved ones and make sure they know you’re okay.”

Someone asks, “Do you know what’s going on?”

“There was an incident on campus, and for the moment we’re on lockdown.”

“You said they needed an ashbreaker.”

Of course they heard that. “I did. Don’t worry about it. I don’t know what’s going on enough to give you details.” His phone rings, and oh look, Derek. “I have to take this. _Call your families_.” He picks up the phone. “Hey.”

“Are you okay?” Derek sounds strained, and like that’s not what he wanted to say.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m okay. I’m in my classroom with a bunch of my students, and we’re under lockdown. Lydia was out there with Public Safety; no details at the moment.”

Derek audibly sucks in a breath. “Don’t be an idiot.”

That would be offensive if Stiles weren’t…Stiles. “Don’t worry; I’m staying in here until we get the all clear.”

“I want to—tell me when you get out. Please. This is not—I’m not going to be okay tonight.”

“Do you have any details?”

“Lockdown because of shooting.” Derek sucks in a breath. “Okay, not going to keep talking about this.”

“Call Laura; she might be able to help.”

Derek sighs. “Yeah. Love you.”

“Love you.” Stiles hangs up, turning his phone over in his hand. A shooting. Jesus Christ, please don’t be Cole. Don’t be anyone, but Cold is so young and bright, and Stiles should be able to protect him.

“Girlfriend?”

Stiles looks up at the student who asked, whose name is Kasey. Probably. “Boyfriend.”

“Ah.” She nods, fiddling with her phone. “My boyfriend said there was a shooting. He’s freaking out.” She swallows. “I’m freaking out.”

Another student says, “I heard it was a werewolf. So we should be fine, right? I mean, we’re all human.”

Christ. “I don’t have any details, but being human doesn’t make you bulletproof.”

“And, uh.” Another one looks up from his phone. “I’m pack, you know. I mean, I’m human, but I’m pack.”

Huh. Stiles probably should have known that, but okay. “As long as we stay in here, we’ll be fine.”

His phone rings again, and he picks it up to hear Scott saying, “You’d better be inside and away from windows.”

Fantastic. “I’m fine, I’m inside, I’m as far away from windows as I can get without leaving a room with windows. Have you talked to Lydia?”

“Allison’s talking to her. I want you away from that school, Stiles. I’m serious. Both of you.”

Stiles feels the order settle, stretching against what he wants, and this is not going to be fun. “I’m not going anywhere, not right now.” He’s aware of the students watching him. “I also really don’t want to have this conversation right now.”

“Stiles—”

“Please. Seriously. You can gang up with my dad and lecture me on my unsafe living habits later, but I can’t right now.”

“Fine.” Scott sighs. “You’re going to owe me so much call of Duty after this is all over.”

“I don’t think it counts as owing if I want it, too.” They haven’t been able to play as much recently, between Derek and Isaac-and-Allison (because they’re basically one word when it comes to this) and all of the shit that’s been going on. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Don’t get shot.”

“Working on it.”

\--

Lydia shows up in his classroom five minutes after the lockdown ends, and he can tell she’s been crying from her makeup. Not because it’s imperfect, but because it’s too perfect, like she just reapplied it. He doesn’t hesitate before pulling her into his arms, even though some of his students are still there, and he knows what they’ll think.

“It’s okay.” He tucks her head against his shoulder, resting his cheek against her hair, and she’s not crying, not now, but she’s shaking, trembling like there’s a current going through her. “It’s okay. I promise.”

“I have had _enough_ ,” and her voice is quiet enough that none of the people listening in would be able to hear, but it _hurts_ , “with dead bodies. There is a _reason_ I left Beacon Hills, a _reason_ I got out of that hellhole while I still could. It’s not okay, and I’m going to burn these motherfuckers to the ground for making it that way.”

Okay then. “We can figure that out once we get off this campus. And you’re staying at my place tonight.”

“Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“My boyfriend understands pack.” And he does. There’s no question Derek will be okay with Lydia being over because pack and romance are independent and can coexist side by side (though Stiles is going to warn him beforehand). “Let’s go; I want out of here.” He pulls away just enough to look at the few kids still milling around the classroom dealing with their shit. “Okay, everyone out. And please stick together and be safe.”

All of his tests are already in his bag, so he pulls it onto his shoulder, grabs the box of leftover cookies, and walks with Lydia out of the room. The hallway is basically empty, as is campus once they get outside, and he can see flashing lights and police tape in the distance, and he can’t feel eyes between his shoulder bones but his back is prickling anyway. Adrenaline hits him, now, like blood between his teeth, sense memory that’s too goddamn strong of all of those times at all of those crime scenes and all of those bodies. He stumbles, and Lydia’s arm around his waist goes from clutching to supporting so he doesn’t fall on his face.

“You okay?”

Stiles sucks in a breath, and it tastes like not-territory and fresh air, and the urge to throw up recedes a little. “Was it Cole?”

“I don’t—” Lydia sighs. “I don’t know what your student looks like. I’m sorry.”

Okay. Okay, he can deal with not knowing for the moment, and he has to, because he has to get home. “I’m going to—I’m going to call Derek and tell him you’re coming over.” And he really needs to hear Derek’s voice again, to be reassured that he’s okay, and maybe Lydia coming over is a little bit selfish because he needs Derek but he also needs pack.

Derek sounds a little frantic when he says, “Hello?”

“I’m okay, I’m safe, they’re letting us leave campus. I—Lydia’s coming back to the apartment with me. She shouldn’t—I can’t.”

“Okay. You want me to give you guys the bed?”

And this is why Stiles loves him. He pulls the phone away from his ear to ask, “Lydia, you good with sharing a bed with me and Derek?”

She smirks at him, and it’s a little brittle, but better. “Your cuddle buddy have abs? Yeah, I’m in.”

He puts the phone back up to his ear. “You hear that?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you soon. I love you, and if you got shot again, I’m never letting you leave the apartment.”

“Love you too.”

They each have their car with them, so he gives her Derek’s address and meets her there. There’s a parking garage nearby where she parks, while he takes the second apartment spot, and they walk in together.

Derek is standing almost directly in front of the door, and before Stiles is done opening it his arms are around Stiles, his nose buried against Stiles’s collarbone. Stiles hugs back, and for a minute they just stand there and breathe, and Stiles doesn’t give a damn that Lydia is there because she gets it.

And then, finally, Stiles pulls away, pushing Derek to move forward just enough to shut the door, Lydia standing next to him. “Has the news announced a name?”

Derek shakes his head, one hand settling on Stiles’s waist. “They haven’t even confirmed if the person is alive.”

Lydia’s hand slides up Stiles’s shirt on the other side. “He’s dead.”

Stiles glances at her. “You said you weren’t sure.”

“I said probably, and I lied. There was a hole in his head. Do you have any alcohol?”

Derek looks like he wants to ask her if she’s okay, visibly thinks better of it, and says, “Beer.”

“And vodka,” Stiles puts in, because one of the things he moved over was his stash of vodka that he looks at on bad days and tends not to drink.

Derek blinks at him. “Right. And vodka.”

“I’m commandeering your vodka.”

She brushes past him, off in search of it, because if there’s anything Lydia can sniff out, it’s alcohol (and great shoes), and he asks, “Do you want something with it, like juice or—” She closes a cabinet with a bang. “No juice. Okay. Got it.” He looks at Derek, pressing against his chest because he really needs the touch right now. “Sorry.”

Derek shrugs. “She’s pack. You wouldn’t say no if I needed Laura.”

“I might say no if you needed Peter. Or at least just not be around.”

“Fair enough.” Derek wraps his arms around him again. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles tries to pull back to look at him, but Derek’s arms tighten, holding him where he is. “For what?”

“This is all Kate. If I hadn’t—”

Oh, Jesus, Derek. “What Kate Argent is doing—what she did—none of it is your fault.”

“To misquote Bruce Banner,” Lydia says from behind Derek, and Stiles jumps because holy shit he hadn’t realized she was there, “her brain is a bag full of cats. You can smell the crazy on her.”

Stiles looks around Derek at her to say, “Traitor.”

“You’re the one with a Batman fetish, not me.”

He looks at the basically-full vodka bottle in her hand. “You want a glass for that?”

One perfectly groomed eyebrow goes up. “You want me to have a glass for this?”

Derek doesn’t drink vodka—it’s one type of alcohol werewolves almost never drink, because, at least according to Scott, it burns so much it fucks with their senses—and Stiles has been way more up and personal with Lydia than sharing a bottle of alcohol, so he shrugs. “Whatever. You up for all of us just…cuddling or something? I need to—people.”

Lydia shrugs, heading over to the couch, and Derek nods, then proceeds to herd him over to the couch, which is kind of embarrassing, but also he really needs to have someone at his back because it’s still prickling even though he’s inside, so he’s not going to complain.

They end up with him in the middle, leaning on Derek with Lydia leaning on him, and he’s being squished from all sides, and it’s awesome, because he’s one piece of bad news away from a panic attack (and he’s getting really fucking sick of those), and they should turn on the news because he really needs to know what the fuck is going on, but he doesn’t want to know. Not until he’s in a mindset to be able to deal with it, and he’s not.

Three long drinks in, Lydia offers him the bottle, and he really shouldn’t take it, because alcohol is not a coping method he can let himself fall into, but his student might be dead and he’s scared as fuck and he really just wants it to be six months ago, so he grabs it and takes a long draught. It burns going down, fire in his throat, and he hands it back saying, “Don’t let me drink anymore.”

Derek’s fingers shift in his hair. “You okay?”

“I—” His phone goes off in his pocket, and he shoots upright, dislodging Lydia in his haste to pull it out. It’s Evan’s number, _oh fuck oh fuck oh_ fuck, and he takes a second to breathe before picking it up; Derek’s hand has slipped to the back of his neck, and he’s so goddamn grateful for it. “Hello. Stilinski.”

“He’s dead.” Stiles’s breath catches, and he barely hears Evan’s sharp inhale over the roaring in his ears; Derek’s hand tightens on his neck. “He—I need to hold a meeting. Tomorrow. And I need an ashbreaker.”

Stiles opens his mouth, and all that comes out for a second is a low hurt noise. It takes him a second, and then he tries again. “I can do that. But Evan, I—I need to know who’s dead.” He needs to know that it’s not Cole, that bright kid, that kid he should be able to protect.

“Gregory.”

Relief hits him so strongly he almost loses his grip on his phone, followed by shame, because this is still someone’s student, someone’s packmate, someone’s child. He takes in a deep breath. “I don’t—I don’t know who that is.”

“He argued with you at the first meeting you helped at.” Evan sounds like a little kid for a second, and Stiles knows that feeling, knows it too well, and Jesus, he never wanted this for these kids. And then Evan says, “I need you there. I’ll text you the information.”

“I—” Derek’s hand tightens again, and Stiles looks at him. He can see what Derek is thinking, and he doesn’t like it. “I’m going to have to bring someone with me. A werewolf.”

“You want to bring a werewolf onto campus now?”

Fuck no, he doesn’t. “My boyfriend isn’t going to let me go by myself.”

“You’re—okay. Name and pack?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “Derek Hale, Hale pack.”

Evan coughs out a laugh. “Jesus Christ, okay. Well, I’ll see you and Hale tomorrow. Thank you.”

“Be safe.”

“Yeah.” Evan hangs up, and Stiles pulls his phone away from his ear to look at it as the screen fades to black.

And then he cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever to write. Sorry.
> 
> Also, if you want to read some of my original fiction, check out the short story Dancing at https://510a.wordpress.com/2016/01/31/dancing. Dancing is the prequel to my serial screenplay, which starts tomorrow, 2/6/16. *Shameless self-plug*


	5. Chapter 5

Campus is empty, aside for the half-dozen police cars. Finals are still going on, and they’re in the middle of one now, though Stiles has no idea how many finals are actually running in-person. Lydia’s first final is in a few days, and she was going to come in to run office hours, but that’s not happening now. She’s not crazy, and Scott’s chomping at the bit to be able to come down, so her not showing up is one of the concessions they made.

He’s not happy about Stiles going in either, even with Derek, but Stiles pulled the ‘the kids need me’ card and insisted. He knows he’s going to pay for that later.

Derek is doing the herding thing again, one hand wrapped around Stiles’s waist, and his claws are definitely out. His front is basically plastered against Stiles’s back, so close that it’s kind of a miracle he hasn’t stepped on the back of Stiles’s foot yet. But Stiles isn’t going to complain, because he needs it, too.

There’s a campus police officer in front of the door to the building, and he stops them before they can enter. “They’re in the middle of a final. Do you have any ID?”

This is usually an open campus (half the problem, right there), so people must be freaking out about this. Though, on the other side, shootings make people a lot more willing to bend. Stiles pulls out his university ID, handing it over.

The officer looks it over then hands it back, looking at Derek. “And you?”

“He’s my bodyguard.”

Derek leans down, pressing his nose into Stiles’s hair and laughing softly. The officer clearly barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes. “Still need to see his ID.” Derek pulls himself back just enough to fish out his wallet and hand over his driver’s license, and the cop barely glances at it before handing it back and saying, “Okay, you can go in.”

They head inside and to the classroom, where Evan is pacing just outside the door, chewing his bottom lip. He looks up when Stiles and Derek walk up, shoving a hand though his hair; it flops back down halfheartedly, a few strands still sticking up. He looks exhausted, and given how bad he looks there’s honestly a chance that he hasn’t slept since the day before. “Professor Stilinski, thank you for coming.”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, of course. Are you okay?”

Evan lets out a laugh, rusty and pained. “Not really, no. Gregory and I didn’t always get along, but we shared a couple classes, and there were times when I would have called us friends.”

Oh, Jesus. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, well, I guess we always knew growing up that bad shit could happen. I can freak the fuck out when I’m home.” He glances past Stiles. “You must be Derek.”

Derek’s fingers contract on Stiles’s waist. “Yeah.” He exhales. “Don’t let them any more of your life from you.”

Evan opens his mouth like he wants to say something, visibly rethinks it, and instead says, “I’ll try.”

A few sets of footsteps come within earshot, and Stiles (nearly has a heart attack) turns around to look at them. It’s Cole and a couple of other werewolves, and they all look awful. Though, to be fair, Stiles knows he looks awful, too, and the only reason Derek doesn’t look awful, given how little sleep they got, is that he’s Derek.

Cole looks at him. “I guess this’ll slow down your grading.”

Stiles hadn’t even thought about that, and he really doesn’t want to. “Not really my biggest concern at the moment.”

“Yeah.” Cole sighs. “Yeah. Hi, Derek.”

Derek nods, then actually pulls away from Stiles to go walk over to Cole and put a hand on his cheek. Cole flinches, then lunges forward and gives him a hug. Stiles stares at him for a second, at them, because holy shit, he’s never seen Derek actually willingly initialize contact that intimate with someone other than his pack and Stiles.

Finally, Cole pulls back, wiping tears from his eyes. “Thanks.”

Derek nods. “It’s okay if it stops feeling bad, but it’s okay if it feels bad for a long time, too.”

Stiles’s heart breaks a little more for Derek at that, and he steps forward to touch Derek’s back, just because he needs the contact.

Behind him, Evan says, “Okay, we can go in now. I just didn’t want to risk being ashed in.”

God. God damn it, Stiles hates this, hates what this has become, because nothing should have gotten them to this point again. He fight as hard as he did so kids wouldn’t have to do this shit any more. “Do you think anyone else is going to show up?”

Cole shakes his head. “Nobody else I know of. Lizzie and Cass and Mark all went home, I think.”

“Haru and Annie said that they’re not coming in; they live off-campus.” Evan shrugs. “I don’t want us standing out in the open longer than necessary.”

They start heading in, and Stiles turns to Evan. “You want Derek in or out?”

“Stiles—”

“It has to be their choice.” Stiles looks at Derek. “And this isn’t going to be a conversation you’re going to like.”

Evan sighs. “You pick. I don’t care.”

“I’m going in.”

Okay. Stiles isn’t going to keep arguing, because it’s not worth it, but both of them have issues that they’ve been pushing down for the past twenty-four hours, and it’s going to come out sooner rather than later.

They all head in the room, with Stiles taking his usual spot off to the side so he has a line of sight to the door and Derek sitting next to him on the table. There’s one too many chairs, and he’s not sure if that’s on purpose, but he’s not going to comment on it.

Evan takes a second to start talking, and the empty chair is next to him, and goddamn it Stiles feels bad for this kid. “As you all know, Gregory was killed last night. The police haven’t released the information about it yet, but what we know right now is that he was shot and them ashed around.” Stiles knows more than that, but he’s not sure now is the right time to say anything, so he keeps his mouth shut. “I know you all want to get back at the people who have done this, especially given everything else that has happened this semester, but our biggest concern right now is staying safe until everyone can go back to their territory. The most important thing with that is to stick together as much as you can.”

One of the werewolves who was there last time makes a noise. “What do you think that’s going to do? They’ll just shoot both of us.”

Another one makes a wounded sound, and Stiles can’t keep sitting there not saying anything. “I have some experience with this, if you want more information.”

“What do you—” The one who had spoken bites off whatever he had been planning on saying, then exhales and says, “You’re human.”

He could argue that he’s pack, but it’s not worth it. “Doesn’t change what I said. I have experience with this, and I want you all to stay safe.”

Evan looks over at him, then nods. “Okay.”

Stiles scrubs a hand against his mouth. “So first, there are a couple of things you need to understand. First, this wasn’t just a shooting and ashing. They used druid-keyed ash, which is extremely hard to get access to. Even without anything else that’s gone on, that would indicate the HFU. Now, between what’s happened and some…other things, there’s an almost definite guarantee that this is the HFU. If the HFU were still being run by Gerard Argent, I would tell you to find a human to stick with, and you’d be okay. They would shoot humans, but not in public.” Derek goes absolutely still beside him, and he needs to make sure he’s okay, but not right now. “As of right now, however, the HFU is being run by Kate Argent from prison.”

Most of the people in the room go pale, and Derek’s hand closes around his thigh, bruising tight. Cole leans forward in his seat. “There’s no way—”

“We have confirmation.” Stiles swallows down his bile, because even the thought makes him want to throw up. “There are a few things you can do right now. The first one is to stay out of public view as much as possible. Stay inside places that require ID—dorms should be relatively safe. Now more than ever, inside buildings is the safest place to be. If you have humans you trust, ask them to be ashbreakers for you, and don’t go outside if you can help it.

“Beyond that, and I hesitate to even suggest this, but you can run rotating perimeters when you’re not in class.”

“Are you just pulling this out of your ass?” one of the other werewolves demands, and god help him, Stiles might hate their anger, but damn if he doesn’t understand it.

So he takes a breath before answering so he doesn’t say something he regrets. “My entire pack ran—or, in some of our cases, walked—our territory perimeter for three years. We have all been shot at and, with the exception of two, shot. I killed the rogue alpha that turned my best friend and I with Alison Agazzi am one of two people I know of who walked into the main HFU compound, told them to fuck themselves, and walked out. So you might not like me and you might not trust me, but I do know what I’m talking about. Any other questions?”

There’s silence, so he continues. “Do all of you know what mountain ash smells like?” They nod. “Wolfsbane?” Another nod. “Gunpowder?” Only a couple of nods this time—Evan and one of the female werewolves. Which is really not optimal. “If you’re going to run perimeters, your main concern should be people who small like mountain ash and/or wolfsbane. For those of you who know the scent of gunpowder, track for that too. I know your sense of smell is better when you’re turned, but especially right now, turning on campus isn’t a good idea, so if you can manage it, go with a partial shift, just to enhance it as much as you can without giving it away. If at all possible, avoid the glowing eyes. And don’t take anyone on alone, and if you can at all avoid it don’t kill them. This isn’t just for legal reasons, though that’s a big part of it; believe me when I tell you that killing is harder on you than you can ever imagine.”

One of them bares her teeth. “They killed one of us. They shot at your alpha. They shot Laura Hale. What are we supposed to do, just play keep-out until we go home?”

“You turn them in to the authorities. I’m not saying let them get away with it. But killing people, that’s—you don’t get that back.” Stiles scrubs a hand across his face. “Being safe, keeping yourself safe, that’s more important than revenge.”

\--

Stiles stops Cole before they head out, asking, “When are you going home?”

Cole rubs at his face, the back of his hand against his eye, and he looks tired. “Day after tomorrow. I have a couple more papers due, one last one due next week, but I can’t…be here. Anna wants me home, too, my alpha, and I’m, uh—how is Argent, Katherine Argent, how is she in charge of the HFU? She’s—she’s still in jail, right? She’s not—” He thumbs at his lip. “I…yeah.”

Derek’s hand slides up the back of Stiles’s shirt, high, palm flat against his spine. “She’s still in jail. A lot of this is complicated—and I’m not trying to condescend to you, but it’s stuff with my pack and Derek’s that our alphas don’t necessarily want us discussing with outsiders.”

Cole nods He’s pack; he gets it. “As long as you’re sure she’s still in jail.”

“Oh yeah, believe me, she’s still there.” Evan catches his eye, and he nods. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to talk to Evan.”

Cole nods. “Yeah. Thanks for—” He waves a hand at the room. “This.”

“Be safe.”

Cole nods again then heads over towards a couple of the other people in the group who are waiting for him at the door.

Stiles heads over to Evan. “What’s up?”

“I want you to do me a favor.”

“Yeah?”

“If I’m shot—” Stiles open his mouth, then closes it when Evan barrels on. “If I’m shot, if I’m killed, keep ashbreaking for meetings. I’m serious. We can’t just—I don’t want them to stop meeting just because I’m dead.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“You don’t know that. Please. Promise me.”

Stiles nods. “Yeah. I promise. But don’t—don’t throw yourself in front of a bullet. Please. Seriously.”

Evan half-smiles, and it looks not-good. “Not planning on it.” His phone chimes, and he pulls it out of his pocket. “Sorry, I have to take this.”

“Of course.” Stiles looks at Derek, who’s standing with his hand up under the back of Stiles’s shirt but his eyes fixed on the door. “Want to go home?”

Derek nods. “If it means getting you off of this campus.”

“I promise to make it up to you for dragging out here.”

Derek smiles at him, a little, but it’s tight around the eyes, and yeah, once Lydia leaves, it’s going to be a lot of both of them freaking out for a while. Which is okay. Stiles can do that. As long as he doesn’t…sleep. Which will go spectacularly.

Also he still has shit to grade, which is also going to go spectacularly, and he never wanted a semester to be over this much when he was a student.

Derek presses his lips to the side of Stiles’s head. “Breathe.”

“’m breathing. Let’s go home.”

They’re almost to the car when Stiles’s phone rings, and he’s glad Derek insisted on driving because it means he doesn’t need to worry about talking on the phone while driving, which is really doesn’t like to do. Problem with having a sheriff as a father. “Hey, Lydia, what’s up?”

“First, I wanted to tell you I headed back to my apartment. Allison’s going to be doing hourly check-ins, hooray, which Scott declared as close enough to the buddy system to count. Second, she and I have a theory on how all of the information on her got released.”

They’ve been trying to figure that out since it got sent to the press, but his board still has question marks for who, how they got the information, and why. “Shoot.” It takes Stiles a second, and then he realizes what he said, and shit. “I mean, go. Speak. You know. Whatever.”

She sighs. “I think it was the HFU.”

The fuck? “Why?”

“Think about it—what was the only thing holding us back from just releasing the info about the HFU to the news ourselves?”

“That it would implicate Chris and fuck over Allison.” They get in the car, Derek letting go just long enough for them to climb in before he grabs Stiles’s thigh. “But that doesn’t make this less true, because they didn’t release the more…sensitive stuff.” Like Allison’s assignment.

“But what they did do was up the stakes for us handing our evidence over. The public is already primed to think of Allison as HFU now. Anything affiliated with Gerard or, worse, Chris would automatically be considered to be affiliated with Allison, too. She was a kid then, but there’s no statute of limitation on murder, and as political as this’ll turn into, there’s a good chance of her risking at least an indictment. And anyway, it would destroy her in a way this didn’t.”

Fuck. “So they’ve basically tied our hands.”

“And more than that, they’ve made Allison into a hostage. They can release more information any time they want if we piss them off.”

That sounds really goddamn likely, and god, Stiles hates Kate Argent. “Okay. So what do we do about it?”

Lydia laughs shortly. “Hell if I know. And we have bigger concerns at the moment.”

No kidding. “Okay, I’ll add it to the board, mark it as theory. I’m heading back to the apartment now. You want a check in time today, or should we hold off till tomorrow?”

“Aim for tomorrow. If I’m two minutes late, Allison will come knocking.”

“Be safe.”

“Same to you.”

Stiles hangs up, sticking the phone in his lap and touching Derek’s hand. Derek glances at him then looks back at the road, saying, “Almost there.”

“Yeah. You going to freak out when we got there?”

Derek’s lips thin. “I’m…not having a great day.” Which is a yes, but that’s okay. That’s why he asked. “You seem…stressed.”

“I—” am trying not to think of it, honestly, and that’s only going to work until they get back to the apartment. “Yeah. We—once you’re not—once you’re okay, I’m probably going to need your help, because I can be functional as long as I need to be, but this is too much like Beacon Hills when it was getting bad, and I’m going to crash, hard.”

Derek glances at him again. “If you want, I’ll take you down when we get back, or try to.”

“That’s not—you need to take care of yourself first. Like with planes. You put your own mask on before anyone else’s.”

Derek’s grip tightens on his leg. “My issues, my main issue right now, has to do with my fear of not being able to keep you safe. It’s Kate, it’s the HFU, but all of that, I’m not afraid for myself. I’m afraid that I’m going to lose everyone else I love. So helping you—I need to do that. I need you to let me do that.”

There’s nothing else he can do, so Stiles nods. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That took forever. Next chapter is going to be fluff (or mostly fluff) because I need to write something happ(ier).
> 
> Also (shameless plug time), if you want to read some of my original work, check out my serial screenplay 510A, of which the first two episodes plus a short story are available at https://510a.wordpress.com/.


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles gets five feet into the apartment before his entire body locks up, because holy fucking shit, someone on campus is dead, and it’s starting again. It was never supposed to start again, not this way, not with the HFU. And he knows that Beacon Hills doesn’t impact the entire world, but it feels like, as much as they did, they shouldn’t have to go through this anymore.

Derek approaches behind him, close but not touching yet. “Color?”

Stiles shakes his head, not turning around. “Give me a sec. I might throw up.”

Almost before the words are out of his mouth, his stomach revolts, and he hurries over to the bathroom to start dry heaving over the toilet. This is why he didn’t eat earlier, because he knew this might happen. And it’s not even the dead bodies, he thinks as it feels like his stomach is about to claw its way out of his body via his throat. It’s not the bodies, it’s the fact that it might be people he cares about next.

His stomach heaves again, and it feels like he can’t breathe, can’t inhale, and then Derek’s hand is on the back of his neck and the pain in his stomach fades. “You okay?”

Stiles gasps in a breath, spitting out a glob of saliva. “Not really. I need to brush my teeth and drink some water.”

“And eat something.” Nausea rises at the thought, and he makes a face. “If I’m going to tie you up, I want to make sure you’re not going to pass out from low blood pressure.”

Honestly, passing out doesn’t sound like the worst possible option at the moment, but Derek is probably right. "Fine, I’ll eat something. Sorry for the—” He gestures towards the toilet he’s kneeling in front of. He still feels shaky, though most of the pain is gone, drained away.

Derek leans forward and flushes the toilet, before pulling Stiles up to more-or-less standing. “You going to be okay for a few minutes while I grab some crackers for you?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Once you’ve brushed your teeth and drank some water, I want you to go to the living room and sit on the couch with your eyes closed. Color?”

Stiles lets out a breath. “Green.”

Derek isn’t in the living room when he finally gets there, and he sits down with his eyes closed and just waits. He’s a bit shaky still, and he really doesn’t want to think about the clusterfuck that is what’s going on. He’s hardcore shaking now, not just muscle twitches but full blow trembling, and he buries his head in his hands and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes.

At this point, he’s basically just going to need to freak the fuck out to get past it, because he keeps pushing it down and it feels like it’s going to burst out of his skin, and he wants to cry and sleep for a month and shower until all of his skin is gone and sit where he is and not do anything. And he has a shit ton of tests to grade and he’s going to have another flood of essays in like two days and he really just can’t deal.

And the real problem is that there’s nothing he can do about it. At least when all the shit was going down in Beacon Hills he could try to do something about it; if nothing else, he could throw himself at it until it gave him a concussion. He can’t even really do research right now, other than the board that he needs to change at some point but that he just can’t do anything with right now.

“I have crackers.”

Stiles groans. “No.”

“You need to eat something.” He hears Derek crouch down in front of him and the crinkle of a cracker wrapper. “I’m serious, Stiles. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

The thought of eating makes him feel kind of sick, and it’s so much goddamn effort, and a kid is dead and he just can’t deal. “I don’t want to.”

Derek touches the side of his neck, and Stiles pushes his palms harder against his eyes. Derek sighs. “What can I do to help?”

“I don’t—” He cuts himself of because he sounds hysterical, and that’s not what he’s going for. He takes a breath, then starts again. “I don’t know. I’m just—I can’t think, I can’t figure things out, I can’t do anything to help, and people are going to keep dying and I don’t know what to do about it, and how am I supposed to live with myself like that, with people dying and me not being able to do anything? Because I can’t kill humans, I can’t just go to jail and shoot Kate Argent in the face, I can’t do any of that, so what am I supposed to do?”

“It’s not your job to keep everyone safe.”

“Bullshit.”

“Look at me.” Stiles shakes his head, because there’s a good chance he’s going to cry, and he doesn’t really want Derek to watch him do that. “Unless you’re going to safe word out—and you always can, you can do that—I want you to take your hands away from your eyes and look at me.”

It takes Stiles a second, but finally he manages to drop his hands and open his eyes to look at Derek, who is right in front of him, so close he’s a little bit blurred, though that might have been the tears prickling at his eyes.

Derek moves his hands to Stiles’s cheeks, and he wants to close his eyes, but he also doesn’t want to safe word out, not yet, because he doesn’t want to have to make his own decisions, because none of them seem to be doing any goddamn good to begin with. “What happened is not your fault. This death is not your fault. Believe me, Stiles, I know. I know how this shit works, and it’s not your fucking fault that Kate HFU killed the people around you. It doesn’t even have anything to do with you.”

“But she said it does,” he says, and he didn’t even realize it’s about that until the words come out of his mouth, but it is. They stuck with the school because Stiles is there.

“No, she didn’t,” and Stiles thinks Derek looks sad. “It’s about me, and you’re just a good vehicle. I know how Kate works, and if she’s doing any of this for anything other than pragmatic reasons, it’s about me.”

Stiles stares at him for a second, because he doesn’t actually know how to process that, and then he gets it, and Jesus. “It’s not—Derek, you can’t blame yourself for what Argent is doing.”

Derek half smiles. “Listen to yourself. Now will you eat something?”

Stiles wipes at his eyes. “Yeah, okay. I can’t—can I not do—I don’t want to think. I’m not doing so well with thinking right now. And I’m just—things are super fucked up in my head right now, and you don’t have to if you don’t want to, because I know this is really hard for you, too, and I don’t want to make you do something that’s going to make this harder for you, and I know this isn’t necessarily the healthiest way for me to deal with things, to just shut it off, but I don’t know how else to do it, and you can say no and I’m not going to—I’m not going to be upset.”

“Stiles.” Stiles stops talking, not that he really has anything else to say anyway, not really, other than what he had already been saying. “I want you to listen to me, listen carefully, because I don’t think you understood this before. And I’m not great at talking, so that might be might fault. So listen: this is how I deal. Helping you gets me out of my own head, just like listening to my alpha does, because it lets me do something for someone else, something that helps someone else. And so what you need and what I need are basically the same, just that you need someone to give it to and I need to give it to someone. So you don’t need to keep giving me an out, because if I need one, I’ll tell you. Now I’m going to tell you to stop talking, so if you need anything else, tell me now.”

He needs people to stop dying, but that’s not something Derek can give him, so he just shakes his head.

Derek nods. “Okay. So from now on, the only thing you get to say is your color unless you safe word out. Color?”

“Green.”

“Okay.” Derek moves back, perching on the table behind him, which—given that they’ve kind of fucked on top of it—is way stronger than it looks like it should be. “First things first, you’re going to eat. We’re going to stick with crackers for the moment. You’re going to eat at least ten of them and then drink at least one glass of water. After that, I’m going to tie you up.”

Stiles wants to ask if Derek can tie him up first, but he’s not allowed to talk, so he just presses his lips shut. Derek examines him for a second. “Did you want something?” Stiles nods. “Do you want me to feed you, for you to be tied up while you eat?” Relief floods him, and he nods again. “Okay. I’ll be back in a minutes. Don’t move.”

Stiles stays where he is as Derek walks out of the room and then returns soon after with a long thick rope and scissors, as well as a glass of water. “It’s too thick to get through quickly with my claws.” He looks at Stiles for a second, then sighs. “I know you don’t like to have your back exposed, but I’m going to tie your hands behind your back, so you’re going to need to turn. Pull your shirt off, turn your back towards the open part of the couch, and put your hands behind your back.”

Stiles does, and Derek kneels behind him, the couch shifting down. Derek’s hands touch his arms, sliding up to his shoulders, and then the ropes begin wrapping around his chest, his shoulders, his arms and hands. It’s calming, like a hand against his back, pressure that reminds him that something is there, and he doesn’t need to move, and he _breathes_.

“Okay.” Derek lets out a breath. “Okay, you already smell a little better.” He moves off of the couch, saying, “Turn back so your back is against the back of the couch.”

Stiles does, and Derek sits down on the table to look at him. He stares at him for a second, then reaches out to touch Stiles’s cheek, pulling him towards him to kiss him lightly on the lips. Stiles goes passively, not sure if he’s supposed to reciprocate or even if he wants to, and when Derek moves him back he smiles. “I’m just trying to remind myself that you’re okay. I love you, you know. That’s rhetorical, by the way, you don’t need to say anything in response. In fact, you shouldn’t.”

Stiles nods anyway, because he does know, and Derek rolls his eyes. “Of course you would find a way to get around that instruction. But that’s not getting you out of crackers.” He grabs the package of crackers and pulls one out to hold it out to Stiles’s mouth. He opens his mouth and takes it, chewing it and swallowing, and huh, that’s actually not as bad as he thought, because it makes his mouth taste kind of neutral, which is what he needs. The mint was kind of starting to bother him.

Derek offers him some water next, which is a bit more awkward to drink without his own hands, but he kind of manages it with only a little dribbling down his chin. That’s followed up with more crackers alternating with sips of water, and his stomach actually settles after a few minutes, which is kind of a miracle.

Derek puts the glass down, then says, “I’m not going to get you off right now. I might not do it today. This isn’t a punishment. Nod if you understand.” Stiles nods. He does get it, and honestly, he’s not really sure if he’s up for sex anyway. Which is kind of saying something about how shitty he feels. “What I am going to do is touch, because you need touch and I need to remind myself that you’re okay. I can do that on the couch, but I would rather do it on the bed. Color?”

“Green.”

Derek smiles. “Good. Stand up.” Stiles stands, knees a little wobbly, and Derek stands as well to stand behind him, one hand on the small of Stiles’s back where his shoulder bones are being pushed together. “Okay, let’s go.”

The walk to the bedroom takes longer than it should, probably, but he doesn’t really care, because he can finally not-think for a little bit, can not-think about the shit that’s going on, and he needs that. Once they’re in the bedroom, Derek says, “I’m going to take off your pants, and then you’re going to lay on your stomach.”

Stiles nods, and Derek reaches around him to unfasten his jeans, which is by far not the most efficient way to do it, but Stiles glad not to have him move around from Stiles’s back. Because yeah, Stiles is not good with having his back exposed, especially not as keyed up as he still is, and he might actually fall apart to have his back to an open door, even if the apartment is locked up.

Derek’s hands pause pushing the pants down his thighs. “You just freaked yourself out again. Color?”

Stiles takes a deep breath, trying to bring his heart rate back down. “Green. I—green.”

Derek lets the pants drop, telling Stiles to step out of them. He does, and Derek leads him over to the bed, where he flops inelegantly down on top of it, made all the more awkward by not having his hands to catch himself. Derek situates him so he’s face down on a pillow then straddles his back.

“I’m going to touch you now. I want you to close your eyes and focus on what it feels like, my skin on yours. Just think about that, not about whatever’s going on in your head. I know you feel exposed, but I will keep you safe. Do you understand me?”

Stiles tries to nod, but his head just kind of flops around on the pillow, so he says, “Mmhmm.”

Derek leans over, his body bracketing Stiles’s, to press a kiss against the back of his neck. Stiles tries to turn his head to get closer, but Derek stops him with teeth against his throat. “Stay. I love you.”

“Love y’too.”

Derek sighs against his neck. “I’m glad, but you’re bad at following instructions. Stop talking.”

“Mmhmm.”

Derek’s hand threads in his hair, pulling just hard enough to be bright points of pain. “Stiles.”

Right. Stiles squishes his face harder against the pillow, closing his eyes, and Derek leans back, sliding his hands down Stiles’s sides. Stiles suppresses a shudder because he’s not supposed to move, and Derek makes a short humming noise. “Good boy.” He touches Stiles’s fingers, tracing around the nails, then the tips, then down the backs of them, somewhere between pressure and touch, and Stiles _breathes_ into the pillow, something tight in his shoulders relaxing as he sinks down into the mattress. “That’s good.” He slides his hands, big and warm and a little bit rough, up Stiles’s arms to his shoulders. “That’s good. You’re safe.”

He is safe, because Derek is there, Derek will protect him, and he can relax.

\--

A while later, after Stiles has been untied and is laying on his back with Derek sprawled on top of him, he asks, “Are you sure it’s okay for me to go with you to your territory for your birthday? I mean, if it’s a family thing…”

Derek snorts into his neck. “It’s a family thing only in the sense that we’re all related to each other. And besides, family time isn’t always something we strive for.” Derek starts sucking a spot on Stiles’s collarbone. “We celebrate my birthday because Laura doesn’t want to let go of everything from when we were kids and because it’s an excuse to get us all together for Christmas when none of us want to celebrate Christmas.”

“So I won’t be in the way?”

Derek bites down, then says, “You’re not in the way.”

Okay then. “Do I need to bring Laura and Peter Christmas presents?”

He laughs. “If you want.”

“Not helpful. Seriously, not—mmph.” Derek kisses him, hard and wet and messy, then sucks on his lower lip. Stiles kisses him back, wrapping his arms around him to pull him close.

Finally, when Derek pulls back, they’re both breathing hard. “Laura and Peter won’t care. I don’t care. Laura just—she said you were helpful. Being able to bring—” He buries his face in Stiles’s neck, and Stiles can feel him breathing there.

Stiles tangles his hand in Derek’s hair. “I’ll give them socks. Everyone can use socks.”

Derek snorts against his throat, and Stiles makes a mental note to buy him socks too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was less fluff than I expected, but nobody died :D. And we will get to Christmas/Laura and Peter drama, and eventually you will find out what's going on with the shootings.
> 
> Is there anything else you all want to see?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a super brief mention of suicide.

“They tried to shoot Cole.”

Stiles considers putting his phone down and just walking away, but that’s not going to happen, so he just takes a breath and asks, “Is he okay?”

“Yeah.” Evan lets out a short, unhappy laugh. “Yeah, he’s fine, he’s out of territory, he’s back home. He’s good. He was with other people, they got him away, but the person got away. I just—we can’t keep doing this. I’m going home in a couple of days, and I’m the last one that I know of, so…so we should be okay, but we need to stop this.”

“I know.” Stiles shoves a hand through his hair. “Do you want me to come help run perimeters?”

Evan laughs again, sounding actually entertained at this point. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not, but thanks. I told all of you, I ran—or walked—perimeters for years at home.” And campus is way smaller than Beacon Hills, so it wouldn’t be so godawful.

“No, we can run it.” Evan clicks his tongue. “I’ll let you know when I leave so you know when we’re gone. If you want to know.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Stiles takes a drink of his massive mug of coffee, and oh god, that’s cold. “Now I’m going to be a teacher instead of an ashbreaker for a second and ask, how are you classes and finals going?”

Evan groans. “My theory paper is total bullshit, and I’ll be lucky if I pulled a C in astrophysics.”

“Why are you taking astrophysics?”

“I thought it was a good idea at the time. By which I mean up until about three days after the end of the add-drop period.”

“I remember that feeling. That was what metaphysics felt like for me, though now I’m wishing I’d paid more attention.”

“Worried about your pack’s node structure?”

“Something like that.” Stiles looks at the spread of papers on the table and couch around him. “Thank you for updating me, and if you need help, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Yeah.” Evan sighs. “Okay, thanks. I’ll let you know.” He hangs up, and Stiles puts his phone down, then drops his head down between his legs and tries to breath.

God, Cole got shot at. And he’s fine, he’s fine, but Evan is right, this needs to stop. Which he still doesn’t know how to do, shy of going to Kate and hurting her until she gave him what he wanted. Which is not optimal.

“You good?”

Stiles picks his head up to squint at Derek, who’s standing in the doorway looking worried. “Fantastic. I want to get out of this territory.”

Derek shrugs a shoulder. “We can go now.”

“I need to grade papers, and I—later.” He looks at the papers again, then stands, stretching. “I need more coffee. And a kiss.”

\--

He gets through basically all of the papers just in time to have the rest of the papers submitted—he’s have them email them in because he doesn’t want anyone out on campus more than necessary at the moment, including himself—and it sets off the last round of grading, which basically reminds him of his semesterly question of why the fuck he puts himself through this.

But nobody else has been shot at, as far as he knows, which is awesome, and he feels like Coulson on the Bus after it was shot up, because wow, he’s lowered his standards for what’s awesome, and it’s almost Christmas, yay.

He and Derek are going to New York from the 23rd to the 26th and then heading to Beacon Hills until January 5th, when he actually has to go back to school, which sucks. Because he loves the school, but it’s getting hard to want to be there. And he could try to move to another school, but it’s the closest school with a good Werewolf Studies program, and he’s also never been one to run away from things just because they scare him.

Except for Beacon Hills, but that’s kind of a separate issue.

Sort of.

Anyway, he’s not going to leave (permanently), but sometimes the thought is really unappealing.

He does want to be in Beacon Hills, though, because he wants to see the pack—he always wants to see the pack, and he always feels just a little touch-starved without them—and because he needs to talk to the tree. A position he never wants to be in, but it won’t leave him the fuck alone—sleep is not a thing that’s happening much at the moment—and he can’t deal with this.

“You’re thinking again.”

Stiles rolls around so he’s facing Derek, resting his forehead against Derek’s bare chest. It’s somewhere in the realm of three in the morning, he’s pretty sure, and it’s not surprising he’s awake but Derek should be. “Go to sleep.”

Derek tightens his arms around Stiles. “You smell like anxiety.” He presses his lips to Stiles’s forehead. “Nightmare?”

Stiles shrugs one shoulder. He’s fucking exhausted, but he’s had the tree nightmare seven of the last nine nights, and he’s not looking for number eight. “Don’t want to sleep. I’ll get up if I’m keeping you awake.”

Derek’s arms tighten even more. “Don’t go anywhere. ‘ll take the pain ‘way.” He sounds mostly asleep now, words slurring together, and there’s no way Stiles can go anywhere now, so he just presses himself harder against Derek’s chest and plans to wait it out.

He falls asleep sometime later, between one of Derek’s breaths and the next, and the tree is there, again, stiles perched on the edge of it, one foot propped up on it, the other dangling off of it. The tree looks taller, today, like it’s growing, which is a scary fucking thought, and also maybe impossible, but he doesn’t know enough about plants to know. stiles looks healthier today than usual, bandages running only up his forearms and dangling down on both ends. He lifts up a hand to give a short wave. “Hey.”

“Why do you keep doing this to me?” The tree is back in the white room Stiles hates so goddamn much, and there’s no sense of space this time, so he doesn’t even try walking away. It worked yesterday, except the tree kept showing up in front of him again, but that’s not even going to be an option this time, so he sits down, lying down to stare up at the ceiling. It’s white, too, blank, just unrelenting light, but he doesn’t trust stiles enough to close his eyes.

stiles sighs. “This would all go so much easier if you would just take the goddamn territory. You know that, right? Just wake up and say yes and take it, and I’ll leave you alone.”

Stiles tries to bludgeon himself on the floor, which doesn’t work because it’s a goddamn dream. “I can’t take territory and I don’t want it and it won’t make you leave me alone. So can you just let me sleep, please? Just let me sleep.”

“Just say yes.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Stiles levers himself up to sitting, finds the tree a few inches away with stiles’s foot almost touching Stiles’s, and immediately drops back down, because nope. “I’m coming to see you in a few weeks, and seriously, you’re a tree. I’m telling a tree I’ll visit it. I’m telling a tree _masquerading as me_ I’ll visit it.”

stiles is on top of him, suddenly, and thank god he’s not a narcissist because otherwise this would be super fucking awkward. More super fucking awkward, because stiles’s nose is an inch from his, and he can(’t?) feel the press of his body on top of him, and he might actually die right here in this dream, and that would suck. But stiles just snaps, “I want this territory, and you will give it to me, one way or another. I’ve been nice, but you’ve seen me when I’m not, and I don’t think you want me to go there.”

Stiles shoves at him, which does exactly nothing. “Why do you want this fucking territory so much? It’s not next to Beacon Hills, and you’re _not here_.”

stiles bares his teeth, and wow, that’s a disconcerting look to see on his own face, too old and not quite human, and the wrong type of animal. “Because the territory is full of telluric currents, you imbecile. Because it is powerful. Because I may be trapped in Beacon Hills, but you are mine, and you are here.” He leans down and closes his teeth around Stiles’s collarbone, and rather than being sexual (thank god) like with Derek, it’s fucking terrifying, because he’s pretty sure stiles could bite straight through it if he wanted it to.

So Stiles holds very still, muscles quivering under his skin, nails biting into his skin, and for a moment neither of them move.

And then stiles is gone, and when Stiles shoots upright he’s back on the tree, examining his bandages. “I’m assuming you got the point.”

There’s not really much to say to that, so he just stays there for a moment, breathing, clutching at his collarbone because motherfucker, that hurts. Finally, he opens his mouth to respond, and what comes out is, “I really need to learn lucid dreaming.”

stiles doesn’t even look up from his bandages. “It wouldn’t help. Bye for now.”

And then Stiles is falling, being pulled down, held down, and it’s dark, and he panics, flailing, fighting back, because he’s lost, he’s lost, he’s trapped, and he has to get out, has to get out, and he’s drowning again, and it’s cold, and this time he won’t be able to get back, and he doesn’t want to die. So he fights, because this was how he got the tree in his head, and he can’t do that again, he can’t, he can’t.

He’s being pinned down, restrained, and he’s back in Eichen House, and they’re going to put a drill in his brain, and he needs to get out before he’s gone forever, before it’s just the tree there and no more him, before stiles turns into Stiles and there’s nothing left, and he screams even though there’s no one listening except the body hanging from the staircase.

Someone is calling his name, and he tries to stop screaming so they can’t hear him because it’s not Scott and it’s not Lydia and they’re going to put a hole in his head, but he might still be screaming or that might be someone else, and he wants out.

Hands are shaking him, but he’s tied down so he doesn’t know how he’s moving, and he doesn’t know if he’s awake or dreaming, and he doesn’t know where he is, and he’s screaming.

His eyes are open, blindly, and he jerks away and tumbles off the bed and onto the floor, jarring everything, and he sees Derek crouched at the bed, looking at him where he lays sprawled on the ground. Stiles sucks in a breath, and his mouth is dry and tastes like bile, and his throat hurts like he screamed it raw.

“What the—” He coughs, and it hurts. “What the fuck?”

Derek scrubs his hand across his face, slumping down a little bit. He looks exhausted, and a glance at the clock tell Stiles its somewhere in the realm of five in the morning. “You were having a nightmare.”

Stiles flops down on the floor, which, okay, yep, he’s definitely bruised. “If I didn’t think it would kill me, I would burn that goddamn tree down to the ground. I need to call Scott.”

“Is something going on?”

Stiles flattens his back against the ground, because he feels vulnerable even now, like if there’s any space someone can reach in and plant a knife in his back. “I need to call my Alpha. Can I have my phone?” There’s a second, and then Derek crouches down next to him, phone in hand. Stiles takes it, and Derek doesn’t touch him, which he’s glad for. He’s not sure how he’ll deal right now, because the thought of being held down— “Oh, that’s going to be fun-looking in the morning.” There are hand-print bruises ringing his wrists, probably from where Derek was holding him down. “When I’m freaking out and asleep, pinning me—not the best idea.”

Derek nods, sitting back on the ground next to him, still not touching. “Sorry.”

Stiles shrugs, not really up for reassuring him at the moment. Then he calls Scott’s number, putting his phone up to his ear.

Two and a half rings in, Allison says, blearily, quietly, “Hello?”

Stiles lets out a breath. “The tree wants this territory because there are telluric currents running through it.”

“Oh, Christ.” There’s a rustling noise like she’s turning over or maybe smashing her face into a pillow. “How do you know that? You haven’t been here in weeks.”

“I’m dreaming again.”

She makes a noise. “Okay. Is that what you called for?”

Stiles drops his other arm over his face, except that lifts his shoulder up and makes him feel vulnerable again, so he puts it back down. “I called because I’m scared and I need my alpha to lie and tell me everything’s going to be okay.”

Allison audibly inhales, pauses, and then says, “Scott, it’s your favorite person.”

As the phone is being passed, he hears Scott say, almost out of microphone range, “You’re my favorite person.” And then the phone gets to him, because he’s louder when he says, “Hey, Stiles. You okay?”

It’s not his alpha voice, not quite, and he sounds raspy with lack of sleep, but it’s still _safe_. “The tree’s in my head, and I’m dreaming again.”

There’s a noise in the background like Scott is getting up, and Stiles would feel bad for getting him out of bed this early, but he can’t. “How often?”

“Almost every night, but tonight was—it wants the territory, and it’s not—you know after Eichen House, when I stopped sleeping?”

Derek makes a short aborted movement next to him as Scott says, cautiously, “Yeah.”

“Can I have permission to do that again?”

Scott coughs out a laugh. “No.”

Yeah, he didn’t think so. “It wants this territory, and ignoring the physical reasons of why I can’t take it, I _can’t take it._ I can’t do that. And the tree could—if anything could make me take it, it would be that tree.”

“You’re human,” Scott reminds him. “Even if you wanted to, even if the tree wants you to, you can’t hold territory. And besides, you’re tied to this territory, to my territory, though me, and you can’t be tied to both. Even I know that’s how it works.”

That is how it works, but it’s the tree, and Stiles is willing to believe it can do virtually anything. “I can’t do it, Scott. I can’t take this neutral territory away from the university. I can’t—I can’t—”

“Breathe, Stiles.” That’s his alpha voice right there, and it’s honestly a relief. Stiles sucks in a breath, holds it for a second, then lets it out. “Good. You’re not going to take that territory. You _cannot_ take that territory. Do you want to come home, get out of the territory?”

The answer is kind of yes, but there are reasons he doesn’t go home—reasons that might not apply as much now, but still—and Derek is watching him like he thinks he might pack up and leaving right then. “No, I’ll stay for now. I’ll be in New York in a couple days, and then I’ll be back in-territory for a bit after that. I just can’t—I’m on a couple hours of sleep, and I’m really fucking scared, and I don’t know what to do.”

“The first thing you need to do is breathe. Nothing is going to be solved by hyperventilating. We will work through this. I’ll stop by the Nemeton tomorrow—or today, I guess. I’ll try to connect with it, see what’s going on. If that doesn’t work—”

“I’ll go when I’m there.”

“I don’t want you anywhere near that tree.”

Stiles pushes his head back against the floor, just to the point of pain, because he needs to talk to the tree, but he’s also really not up for arguing with his alpha right now. Scott, maybe, but not his alpha. “I told it I would talk to it. Please don’t make me fight you on this.”

“That’s just because you know I’ll win.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Scott is silent for a second, then says, “Okay, I’ll hold off for now.” He makes a noise. “Sorry, I’m tired and not doing great at this. Check in. Pain, mental status, are you alone?”

“Uh, I fell off the bed, so that hurts. I’m not fantastic mentally, but breathing is normal, and I’m not having a panic attack. Derek is with me.”

Next to him, Derek rasps out, “Hi.”

“Hi. Okay, pain first. Anything broken, anything sprained?”

“No. Couple of bruises. Few bruises. I’m fine.”

“How much sleep have you gotten in the last few days?”

Oh, this isn’t going to be fun. “Probably six or seven hours over the last three days. I’m _fine_.”

Scott clicks his tongue irritably. “You called me, and I’m your alpha. I get to be protective when you call at five in the morning saying the Nemeton’s back in your head and you’re having nightmares. And I want to know why you didn’t tell me before now, but we can argue about that later, too. Do you want more sleep right now?”

“I want to never sleep again, because drugging myself into unconsciousness isn’t really appealing, and otherwise I’m going to dream. I don’t know how to keep doing this, Scott. It was supposed to be over, all of this, the shootings and the HFU and the tree. We were supposed to be past it. I _stood in front of Gerard Argent_ to be past it. So what am I supposed to do now?”

“We’ll figure it out. It’s going to be okay.”

“You can’t know that.”

“We always figure it out in the end, so yeah, I do. Do you need my help?”

Stiles exhales. “No. You can go back to sleep. Tell Allison and Isaac sorry.”

“They don’t blame you. Derek, look after him. Please.”

“Will do.” Derek sighs. “Thank you.”

“Yeah. Stiles, you can’t stop sleeping. I can make that an order if you need me to.”

“I know.” Though he really doesn’t want to sleep. “I’ll try. Talk to you later.”

“Bye.”

Stiles hangs up, then drops his arm back to his side, staring up at the ceiling. Most of him aches from the fall off the bed, and really feels godawful. “Can I be selfish for a minute?”

Derek nods. “Of course.”

Stiles flops his arm out towards Derek. “Can you take some of my pain, just for a few minutes? Please. You’re better than ibuprofen.”

Derek smiles at him, though it’s a little bit shaky. “Thanks.” He takes Stiles’s hand, tangling their fingers together, and the pain evaporates like water off of hot asphalt, and it’s such a goddamn relief he doesn’t even feel bad about using Derek like this.

At least for the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters will be Christmas with Laura and Peter.
> 
> Also, as always, if you want to read some of my original fiction, I'm posting a serial screenplay at 510a.wordpress.com.


	8. Chapter 8

Airports? Not Stiles’s favorite place in the world. Better than hospitals, worse than classrooms; there are too many entrances and not enough exits, and there are too many goddamn people that Stiles by definition doesn’t know.

So yeah, not a fantastic place to be, especially given how bad his hypervigilance is at the moment. So he just presses his back against a pillar and watches the screen above the carousel promise that it’ll give them their bags two minutes ago.

Derek stands next to him, fingers tangled in his left hand. “You good?”

Stiles nods, poking at his backpack on the ground in front of him with his foot. “Yeah. Keep wanting to check the exits and then freak out because there aren’t enough of them, but yeah. I probably should have asked you this before, but what sort of triggers should I be aware of with Laura or Peter or the three of you in general?”

Derek makes a face. “Don’t bring up the fire or my family or Laura being shot at all. Laura might bring it up, and Peter might mention my mother, but just…I really don’t want to talk about it if I can help it. Kate or the other Argents, either, including Allison, or the HFU. And Peter might bring up Cora, but don’t—don’t.”

Stiles wants to ask who Cora is—he’s heard that name before—but the carousel starts up, and Derek lurches towards it, and now really isn’t the time anyway. So he just picks up his backpack and follows Derek over to where suitcases are now being spit out. They only need to grab one, thank god, because between the two of them they had only had enough stuff to fit in a suitcase plus two backpacks.

Derek grabs the bag before Stiles can get to it, which is not super surprising because he’s been particularly do-the-heavy-lifting recently, probably to try to make up for…whatever. For being Derek. They’re talking about it. It’s going….

It’s going.

They head out of the arrivals section of the airport, which is so fucking crowded because LaGuardia but at least has more exits, and Derek heads off somewhere so Stiles follows him because presumably he has some idea of where he’s going, but Stiles sure as hell doesn’t.

They stop in front of a woman with a sign reading “Hale and Stilinski”, and Stiles is so busy trying to figure out if that guy with a Humans First shirt is staring at them that it takes him a second to place her as Julia, Laura Hale’s…personal assistant. Or something.

She tucks the sign under her arm, nodding at the two of them. “Mr. Hale, Stiles, come with me please. Congresswoman Hale regrets that she is unable to meet you here, but she and Mr. Hale thought that it would be an unwise idea.”

Yeah, no kidding. Stiles nods, and they head towards one of the exits. As they walk, Stiles nudges Derek’s shoulder. “How come you’re called Mr. Hale?”

Derek smiles at him, though it’s a bit strained. “She won’t call me Derek. I’ve asked. More than once.”

Stiles smirks at him. “She listened to me.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay.” They get outside, and holy shit, a limousine. A stretch limousine. They didn’t get one of these last them they were in New York. But Derek doesn’t even twitch, which is kind of weird. Though Stiles has always known Derek had money, given that he was living alone in a nice apartment and never seemed to be worried about money. And it’s not like Stiles doesn’t have enough money, but he’s not rich.

A bulky white guy standing at the limo opens the side door, saying, “Please leave your bags here.”

Derek leaves the suitcase and his backpack, gesturing for Stiles to do the same, but that’s kind of weird, so Stiles just holds on to his bag and climbs in to the limo. There are an absurd number of seats for a car, and Stiles drops his bag on one of them and moves over as Derek climbs in after him. He’s kind of expecting Julia to follow in after, because there are still like half a dozen seats left even given his bag taking up a full seat, but the door closes behind them.

And this is just kind of surreal.

To hide his discomfort because holy shit, the Hales might be kind of way richer than Stiles thought, Stiles smirks at Derek. “So? How about this?”

Derek grimaces. “Happy birthday to me. Laura’s ridiculous and is probably going to ask us if we had sex back here.”

“Well, we should try not to disappoint her.”

Finally, Derek smiles for real. “You trying to get in my pants now?”

“I wouldn’t say no to giving you a blow job.”

“I think we’ll hold off for now. Might get a bit…bumpy.”

Good point. “So, where are we going?”

“Our territory is in the middle of Manhattan.” Derek sighs. “I’m not sure if you can feel it right now, but territory is complicated in New York City. There aren’t really lines, and it tends to feel…mushy.”

“Doesn’t that bother you, to not have territory lines?”

“Yeah, well, why do you think I live in neutral territory across the country.” Derek’s lips thin, and then he leans forward and kisses Stiles, fingers tangling in his hair, teeth closing over Stiles’s lower lip. Stiles gasps into the kiss, surging forward, and maybe there are advantages to this ridiculous car, because now they’re horizontal and not doing the awkward backseat squished thing he’s done more than he’d like to admit. They make out for a while, and then Derek pulls back to say, “I love you, and this weekend is going to suck.”

Stiles sits up so he can see Derek, putting a hand on his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, closing his eyes and throwing a forearm over his face. “I shouldn’t have dragged you here. We’re always just miserable for a few days while pretending to be happy, and then I go home.”

That’s really sad. “Maybe I can try to make it a little less miserable for you. If nothing else, I can give you blow jobs.”

Derek’s smile peeks out from underneath his (fantastic) forearm. “I’m going to hold you to that.” And then he reaches up and pulls Stiles back down on top of him, taking in a deep breath and then shuddering. “You smell like airplane air and other people.”

“I’ll shower when we get to wherever we’re going.”

“And then I’m not going to let go of you for the next three days.”

Stiles buries his face against Derek’s collarbone and tries not to head-butt him as they run over a bump. “I’d think your sister would want to claim cuddling rights.”

“I have two sides.” Derek sits up, pulling Stiles up on top of him with seemingly no effort. “I’m going to be…clinging. We don’t—my family doesn’t deal with family things. I told you that. You know that. I just can’t—you’re allowed to tell me to fuck off if I get to be too much or if Peter or Laura get to be too much. We’re a mess and we know if, so if you need air, just…ask.”

Oh, God, Derek. “Thank you, but I’m fine. You sat through dinner with Scott, Allison, Isaac, and Kira at basically the worst time that could happen without complaining or throwing something, so I can sit through your birthday party. Weekend. Thing. And then give you blowjobs. After the party.”

There’s a knock on the divider between them and the driver, and Derek tells them to lower the divider. It slides down, Julia turning to look at them. “We’re five minutes away. You will be passing into Hale territory in—”

Derek sucks in a breath. “Now.”

Julia nods sharply. “Congresswoman Hale has informed me that she will be able to meet you ten minutes after your arrival; she’s currently on a phone call with the President. Your uncle will be available to meet you upon your arrival.”

Derek grimaces, tangling his fingers with Stiles’s. “Okay. Thank you.” Julia nods again, turning back to look out the window as the divider slides back up. As soon as it’s up, Derek groans. “I don’t want to deal with Uncle Peter.”

“Why come here, then?”

“Laura asked, and sometimes I like to delude myself into thinking things are normal.” He lifts Stiles’s hand to his mouth, kissing his palm. “I don’t say no when she asks for things. I can’t.”

They sit there for another few minutes in silence, Derek’s mouth pressed against Stiles’s palm like he can’t bring himself to move away yet. Finally, the limo slows to a stop, and a minute later the door opens, letting in the sunlight. And ew, that’s bright.

Derek slides out of the car, grabbing Stiles’s backpack as he goes, and that’s really just starting to get annoying. Stiles climbs out after him, squinting at the sun. He pulls his backpack back from Derek, which only works because Derek is distracting by getting his other two bags from the driver. And then he stops and stares, because the building they’re in front of looks like something from some movie. Bright and sparkling and not as dirty as he expects for Manhattan. Though from looking around, they’re definitely in the rich part of Manhattan. Wherever that is.

Julia stops in front of them. “Stiles, Mr. Hale, follow me.”

They follow her up the carpeted slight incline into the building, the entrance of which has black marble floors and bizarrely stark modern art. The concierge nods to them. “Good to see you, Ms. Marris, Mr. Hale. Your guest will need to sign in.”

Right. Stiles fishes out his wallet and finds his driver’s license, handing it over, and the concierge makes a copy and then hands it back. Then they head to a set of elevators, where Julia presses the up button. And then she nods to the both of them. “I am required in the office. Have a nice stay.”

Derek and Stiles nod, and then she turns on her heels and clicks away. The elevator opens and the two of them head in, Derek swiping a card over a black area below the buttons and then pressing the button for the top floor. “We’ll be in the floor below,” he says finally. “That’s where I stay. But if we’re meeting with Peter and Laura, it’ll be up there.”

He sounds off still, and Stiles asks, “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine once I see Laura.” The doors close, and Derek stiffens. “Can you feel the territory?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Not any more than I can feel any other territory that’s not mine. Not my pack’s, I mean. It feels different from neutral territory, the same kind of strain, but not—I don’t spend that much time in territory that I’m not from, so it’s hard to say.”

The elevator doors slide open, and Derek steps out, dragging the suitcase with him; Stiles follows behind. Peter is standing in front of them, smirking at the two of them.

“Look what the cat dragged in. The prodigal son, deigning to come home at last for his once a year celebration.”

Derek sighs. “Lay off it, Peter, I was here a couple months ago. And, uh, you know Stiles.”

Stiles raises a hand in greeting. “You tried to kill me before.”

Derek snorts. “Okay, not what I would have gone with. Yes. Okay. You tried to kill him before. Please don’t do that again.”

“I’ll consider it.” He glances past Derek to Stiles, then looks at Derek again. “Marking your territory?”

Derek stiffens, his shoulders pulling up to his ears, and Stiles clamps a hand over the mark on his collarbone. He wants to say something glib, but he’s not sure what to say; Derek forces out, “No.”

Peter’s eyes widen gleefully. “You let someone else do it?”

Derek goes even more rigid, and Stiles can’t let this keep going. “It was me.”

“It was you?”

Stiles steps up next to Derek, putting an arm around his waist. “Yep. It was me.”

“You bit yourself. In the collarbone. You really expect me to believe that?”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t really care what you believe, though you know, you should be able to tell that.” He pulls the collar of his shirt up a little higher, to keep the mark hidden. It’s from the tree, from that dream, so he guesses it basically is the truth. He did do it to himself, in some roundabout way. And it hasn't gone away, just like the bruises from Derek's hands have only faded a little, leaving green-purple hand prints spanning his wrists.

Peter bares his teeth, then goes rigid when Laura clicks into the room on her spectacular four inch heels. Which she then pulls off and drops to the side, opening up her arms. Derek walks into them, burying his face in her hair, tension running out of his body, and across the two of them, Peter and Stiles don’t look away.

\--

Two minutes into a dinner delivered from some Italian restaurant that has food a million times better than the stuff that they order in near NCU, Laura turns to Derek and asks, “So, how was the limo ride?”

Without missing a beat, Derek asks, “Fuck your assistant yet?” then stick another bite of broccoli (aka tree food of the devil) in his mouth.

Laura rolls her eyes, in what seems to be a family trait once they start being more family than Alpha and pack (both of which have their time, and Stiles isn’t surprised this is the first time he’s seeing the former). “She’s straight, which is a shame, because she’s so damn efficient.” Assistant being Julia. Right. That took Stiles longer than it should have, but for whatever reason he was assuming Laura was straight. Shame on him. “Surprised by your Sapphic sister-in-law?”

The sister-in-law bit takes him a second, because hey, not actually married, but then he says, “No, more just surprised I didn’t notice. I tend to be better at telling that sort of stuff.”

She shrugs. “It’s not like I go around advertising it, though maybe if I did that they would all stop asking me if I was planning on running for president. But no, between the three of us, we’re a pack of godless queers that the Republicans can’t get rid of because I’m not elected.” And with that she takes a long draught of wine sitting in front of her.

Okay, then. A touchy subject. Nice to know.

But Derek just stabs at another piece of broccoli. “But don’t you know, Laura, that love conquers all?”

She pours herself more wine, drinks another long sip, then says, “Yeah, well, that might matter if I fell in love with anyone. You, though, you’re the Disney princess of our little family.”

Stiles chokes on his water, grabbing his napkin to spit some of it back out before it can go down his windpipe. Derek just pats him on the back as Peter smirks at him and Laura goes on sipping her wine. Finally, once he gets his breathing under control and stops spitting up water, he says, “I’ve never heard anyone describe Derek as a Disney princess before. He almost made a kid piss himself right after we first met for sitting at the table Derek had claimed.”

Derek snorts. “I had forgotten about that. And it wasn’t that it was my table. It was our table.”

That’s…disturbingly sweet.

“See? Derek has the sappy love story and got the guy, while I’m a workaholic aromantic lesbian and Peter would fuck anything that moves if he thought they could have an intellectual conversation with him afterwards. Who would you call the Disney princess in this situation?”

That’s now more information than Stiles ever needed about Derek’s pack, and Stiles likes information. But also, “I guess I would go more with a Disney prince. Calling him a princess seems a bit homophobic.”

Laura holds up her hands. “Okay, I’ll concede. Derek is a Disney prince with the story of a Disney princess. A surly Disney princess.”

Derek glances at Stiles. “Aren’t you glad you came here?”

Stiles bumps his knee against Derek’s. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Laura drinks some more wine.

\--

After dinner and then sitting in front of the gas fireplace making small talk because there doesn’t seem to be anything they can talk about that isn’t going to make someone upset, right before they’re all about to head to their separate bedrooms/floors, Stiles turns to Laura and says, “I know this is a shitty thing to ask, but I would actually like to get some sleep tonight, so…how secure is your apartment?”

It takes Laura a second—she glances at Derek, first, where he’s sitting with Stiles basically on top of him in a one-and-a-half chair because Laura took the other chair and Stiles wasn’t going to share a couch with Peter—and then she says, “See, Derek, I told you he was useful. The doors to each apartment level have two locks each, and the only way to get to either floor is with a card that five people have—me, Peter, Derek, Julia, and the front desk. The windows are bulletproof, though as I’m sure you know if a person takes enough shots they could likely get through. Our floors are accessible from each other’s by stairs. There are also at least four ashbreakers on staff at any one time, including one druid-trained ashbreaker.”

Wow, that’s pretty impressive. Stiles nods. “Okay. I’m druid-trained, too, though I’d really like to not keep cutting myself open to get through ash.”

She half-smiles. “I’m sure Derek would appreciate that too. Good night, Derek, Stiles.”

Derek climbs to his feet (and manages to do it so Stiles still ends up on the chair, which is impressive) and walks over to wrap her in a hug; Stiles thinks he sees her say something as she runs a hand up and down his back.

Finally, he pulls away, and she puts a hand to his cheek. “Love you, little brother. No matter how much you avoid coming home.”

Derek leans down to rest his forehead against hers. “Love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...Laura ended up being slightly more bitter lesbian than I had intended (I mostly just wanted Derek's line about the PA, and it spun out from there), and wow, this chapter is a mess. But yay, dysfunctional pack stuff (after which we'll get the comparatively functional McCall pack).


	9. Chapter 9

“We’re getting coffee.”

Stiles blinks up at Laura from where he’s sitting in one of the chairs, reading Reddit on his phone while Derek (who he’s kind of on top of) types on his computer. “We?”

“You and I. We’re going to Starbucks and getting coffee.”

Stiles glances at Derek, who doesn’t seem to be paying attention, then says, “I don’t know if that’s a great idea.” Given that she’s a congresswoman, and was recently shot.

One immaculate eyebrow goes up. “I think it’s a fine idea.”

“I don’t think Derek thinks that’s a great idea.”

Derek keeps typing. Laura smirks at him. “Right. Come on. Let’s go. I want to talk to you without my brother sitting in and fretting.”

Which is exactly why Stiles is trying to avoid going with her. But he can survive a few minutes with Laura in a coffee shop. Probably. So he sits up, nudging Derek’s leg with his foot. “You should be defending me against your sister.”

It looks like Derek rolls his eyes. “You’ll be fine, and her security detail is going with you.”

Laura sighs. “I’m going to be fine.”

Now he looks up at her. “You promised, Laura. You were _shot_.”

Laura stares at him for a second, then sighs. “Fine. They’re human, and it’s Starbucks, but fine. They can wander after us and not do anything against a sniper or whoever the fuck else is going after me.” Derek flinches, and Laura’s expression softens. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I’m going to be fine, Derek, I promise.

Derek’s jaw twitches. “You’re my alpha, Laura. You can do whatever the fuck you want to me, but you aren’t allowed to get yourself killed.”

Oh, Jesus, Derek. Because alphas aren’t actually allowed to do whatever they want to their pack. That’s not how good packs work, and it’s not sustainable, and Stiles is definitely going to need to have a conversation with Derek about that at some point. But not right now. So he just leans down and presses his lips against Derek’s forehead, running his fingers through his hair. “We’re going to be fine.” Hopefully.

Derek holds on to him for a second, and he stays even though it’s uncomfortable because Derek needs the comfort. “If you get shot again I’m locking you up.”

Stiles pushes at him, then straightens out. “I still think this is a bad idea. Why am I defending it?”

Derek smirks at him, though his expression is still strained. “Laura does that. You’ll get used to it.”

“Though really, is anything going to be open on Christmas Eve?”

“It’s Starbucks in Manhattan. You’re not getting out of chatting with me.”

Fantastic.

\--

Apparently Starbucks is open on Christmas Eve, though it’s mostly a few women in hijabs at a side table and a stressed-looking barista. Baristo? Guy at the counter definitely on his phone and not happy with whatever is going on on it.

Much to the apparently consternation of her security team of two large human men in black suits, Laura walks up to the counter and orders a black coffee and a caramel macchiato with an extra shot of caramel without asking, which is honestly a little bit disconcerting. The women in the hijabs look kind of uncomfortable with the security team, though to be fair Stiles is also kind of uncomfortable with two giant humans standing behind him looking menacingly at people.

So he’s glad when they grab the coffees and head to a table in the corner where he can sit with his back to the wall.

He gestures to the cup. “How did you know?”

She smiles, taking a sip of hers. “Derek didn’t shut up about you for a month straight after he met you. I probably could have identified you by scent after a week. I know what your favorite coffee is.”

That’s…weird, a little bit, but also awesome and kind of sweet. And also he’s really glad he ended up dating Derek (for a lot of reasons) because that devotion is a lot nicer when you’re asking for it. “Well, thanks, I guess. So…what did you want to talk to me about?”

“About that, actually.”

Oh, boy. “Are you seriously going to give me the shovel talk? Now? It seems a bit late for that.”

“The opposite, actually. Mostly. You’re good for Derek. I know the two of you have had problems, and I know things are hard because of the HFU, but Derek is happier with you than I’ve seen him since the fire. He’s looking to the future for something other than his books now, and honestly, I had been getting worried that that wasn’t going to keep sustaining him. So I want to know if you’re in this in for the long run.”

Oh, so it’s that kind of fun conversation. He’s heard about these. Never had one before. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t go into relationships planning on them to end.” Though, given what she had said before, he actually doesn’t know. He’s definitely going to need to look aromanticism up. “I love Derek, and I’m glad I make him happy. I want him to be happy. If you want me to promise that I will, without conditions, be in a relationship with Derek for the rest of his life or mine, whichever is shorter, I’m not going to do that. That’s not how it works.”

She stares at him for a second, taking a sip of her coffee, then nods. “Okay, fair enough. I guess what I really want to know is, are you looking for a long-term relationship? Do you want to get married, or have a permanent relationship, or whatever it is that people do?”

He opens his mouth, isn’t what sure what to say, and covers it with a drink of his drink. Which is better in the coffee shop at NCU. He doesn’t particularly want to start sharing his feelings with Laura Hale, the woman who brought way more attention than NCU than she should have. And he knows it isn’t totally her fault, but yeah, maybe he’s still a little annoyed.

But this seems to be a conversation with Derek’s sister, or at most his alpha, not Congresswoman Hale, so he has to let it go for the moment. “I would like to be with someone for the rest of my life. As you probably know, that’s complicated when you’re in a pack, because the choices are either a human or someone in another pack, so it was never a concrete plan for me. Is that person Derek? I hope so.”

“Good.” She leans back in her chair, glancing back at her security people. “Any chance you fellows can leave us alone for a while?”

The slightly larger one shakes his head. “Sorry, ma’am, we can’t.”

She grimaces. “Fantastic. This is what I get for bring my security detail with me.”

“If you get yourself shot again, it will actually break Derek. And I’d really like to not be shot again, either, so you don’t really get to complain about the guys willing to take a bullet for you.”

Laura sighs. “Okay. Yes. Fine. Jesus, you sound like Peter, though he would probably just tell me to shut up and let a human get shot for me. Fine. You want to tell me why you look like you haven’t slept in the month and why there’s a bite mark on you that apparently isn’t from Derek?”

“You’re not my alpha, so no.”

She leans towards him. “Is someone hurting you?”

“People keep shooting up my campus, so what do you think?”

“Is Derek hurting you?”

What the fuck? “Where the hell did you get that from? If the bite mark isn’t from Derek, why would you think he was hurting me?”

She glances at his wrists. “Because those are.”

He jerks his sleeves down over the green-purple bruises. “When you’re a human who runs with wolves, you end up bruised. You don’t seem to hang with humans much so I guess you don’t know that, but that’s how it works. So no, Derek isn’t hurting me any more than I would be hurt spending time with my pack and, depending on what’s going on, probably less.”

“Good. I didn’t really want to have to tell you to get out of that relationship the breath after asking you if you’re planning on staying in it. But back to the question: what’s going on with you?”

“And like I told you, you’re not my alpha, so I’m not talking about this. I’ve talked to Derek about it because I have permission from my alpha to share with my significant other. I don’t have permission to share with you.” And that’s basically true, too, though part of it is that he really just doesn’t want to have this conversation with Laura. They have a general rule not to talk to about the tree, the nogitsune, or some of the more complicated HFU stuff, though it’s gotten a bit messy considering that the HFU isn’t something that they can ignore anymore.

Laura grimaces. “See, this is the problem with human pack members. You listen to your alpha and aren’t intimidated enough by me to ignore them. Fine.” Suddenly, she grins at him. “So, what did you get Derek for his birthday?”

“Nope. You get to find out tomorrow with Derek.”

She throws up her hands. “Humans are so frustrating. Whatever.” His phone vibrates in his pocket, and they both look at it because werewolf hearing. “You should probably get that.”

He pulls his phone out, and oh look, Scott. He answers the call and sticks it up to his ear, saying, “Hey, honeybun, this might not be a great time.”

Laura’s, “No, I think we’re done,” is over Scott’s, “What’s going on?”

Stiles nods to Laura, then stands, grabbing his coat. “Nope, never mind, we’re good.” He puts his coat on one arm, switches his phone to the other side, and flails his other arm into its sleeve as he starts towards the exit. “Merry Christmas Eve, beloved overlord. What’s up?”

“Merry Christmas Eve. How’s New York?”

Stiles steps out onto the sidewalk, and motherfucker, that’s freezing. “Cold, mostly. And Hale family dinners make the Argents look functional. Is everyone in-territory yet?”

“Yeah, Isaac got back from LA last night. Everyone wants to say hi to you.”

“Hi, everyone.”

Scott laughs. “Okay, no, I’m putting you on speakerphone.” There’s a beep, and then the sound quality of the ambient noise coming through the speaker changes to that annoying trying-to-pick-up-everything hiss. “Everyone’s here.”

Stiles heads down another street, hoping he’s not going to get lost, because that would suck. “Hi, everyone.”

There’s a chorus of, “Hi,” with Lydia’s, “Ask Laura Hale what lipstick she wears.”

“I’ll get right on that. Merry Christmas Eve. And Merry Christmas.” The wind picks up, and he burrows deeper into his scarf. “Sorry for skipping out on pack stuff.”

“Nah,” Allison says, “Other than Scott, you were basically the only the only person who hadn’t skipped anything.”

“Except for that time he skipped my birthday,” Liam puts in, and Scott coughs. “It’s okay, I’m over it. Mostly.”

Stiles snorts. “Clearly. Anyway, so I expect pictures of all of your gifts, not just Isaac’s Instagram haul.”

“What?” Scott sounds genuinely surprised. “Wait, no, we’re holding off on gift stuff until you get here.”

“Oh, no, you don’t need to do that.”

“Stiles—”

“It’s a tradition. Don’t screw with the tradition.”

“Shut up.” Stiles shuts up, pulling his hood over his head because damn, it’s cold. “Yes, getting together is a tradition, and exchanging gifts is part of that, but we’ll enjoy it more if we do it while you’re here.”

“Thank you, oh wise leader.”

Scott snorts. “This is what I get for being nice? I get no respect in this pack.”

“That’s why, once Stiles gets back, we’re overthrowing you and putting him in charge instead,” Allison tells him, and everyone laughs. But that leaves a bad taste in his mouth, like acid and metal in the back of his throat, because the tree wants him to have territory, and he doesn’t know what that would do to his pack bond.

So when the laughter ends, he says, “I hate to ruin the moment, but I have to know, has the tree done anything?”

There’s a hesitation, and then Lydia says, “The territory feels a little weird, even Allison and I can feel it, but we haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary.”

Scott sighs. “I can feel it, I think, sometimes, like a pressure against the base of my skull, like it’s _there_ , but I don’t know if that’s new.”

Isaac asks, “Why didn’t you say any something?”

“Don’t know if it’s really the tree, and it doesn’t matter. We’ll talk about this more when everyone’s in-territory.”

“Scott—”

“It’s Christmas Eve, Isaac. I love you. We’re doing this later.”

Stiles shoves his face deeper into his scarf. “Sorry, didn’t mean to make it bad. I’m just far enough away that it can’t touch me at the moment.”

“And that’s _good._ It’s fine. Now go make out with your boyfriend or whatever you were doing before I called.”

“I was being interrogated by Laura Hale about why I look like an insomniac abuse victim, and do _not_ give me permission to talk to her about the tree. The rule is a handy excuse.”

Scott laughs. “Okay. Rule still stands, then. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas. I love all of you.”

Lydia snorts. “Don’t get sappy.” And on that note, they end the call.

\--

The concierge lets Stiles in but doesn’t let him up to the Hales’ floors, which is a logistical issue they probably should have foreseen. So he just stands there awkwardly next to the elevator scrolling through Instagram until the elevator opens and Derek steps out.

“Hey.”

Derek smiles at him, leaning over to touch their foreheads together for a second. “Hey. How was your chat with my sister?”

“She interrogated me on my intentions.” He grins at Derek. “I felt like some nineteenth century sailor and you’re a helpless maiden that she wants to make sure I won’t break the heart of.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Hilarious.”

“Yep.” The door to outside opens, and Stiles can feel the cold even from where they’re standing. “Can we go up? I’m freezing.” To illustrate, he shoves one hand under Derek’s shirt; Derek bites off a yelp, scowling at him. “What?”

Without a word, Derek presses the up button on the elevator, then pulls Stiles’s hand out from under his shirt, tangling their fingers together. Then he asks, in a weirdly faux-casual voice, “So, what did you say?”

Stiles blinks at him. “What did I say about what?”

“Your intentions. You planning on getting me pregnant and then sailing off on your ship to be never seen again?”

Stiles laughs, trying to shove at him, but Derek keeps their hands together. “Right, yeah, I’ll get right on that. No, I told her…well, I told her that I plan to stay with you. If I can. For however long. As long as it works out.”

Derek’s face lights up in possibly the gentlest smile Stiles has ever seen on him, and he brings up their joined hands to kiss the back of Stiles’s just as the elevator dings and then opens.

Laura is sprawled across Peter when they get up to the top floor. Derek and Stiles walk over to them, and then Stiles says, “So I know you guys aren’t huge fans of celebrating Christmas, but I have presents for you.” Peter opens one eye to look at him. “By order of my alpha.”

Laughing, Laura asks, “Is that what it sounds like when the two of you use that as an excuse for doing something?”

Peter closes the eye again. “I’ll have you know I always sound more dignified than Derek’s fucktoy.”

Derek growls at him, which doesn’t seem to faze him. Though Stiles honestly isn’t sure at this point if anything fazes him. So instead he just says, “Well, this is a little less excited than the ‘yay, presents’ I was hoping for. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Getting down a floor from where they are is way more complicated than it seems like it should be, because the stairs are hidden behind a door that isn’t labeled with anything, and he only half knows where that door is, and wow, is this really how rich people live?

And that’s something he kind of wants to ask Derek about, because people in Beacon Hills tend to range from middle class to upper middle class, but this is a whole other world. But at the same time, he has a feeling of what the answer is, and that’s not something he wants to make Derek talk about. Especially not around the remaining parts of his family.

So he just grabs the three boxes—immaculately wrapped by Lydia because she took one look at his newspaper wrapping job and declared him entirely incompetent—and heads back up to the penthouse. This whole thing is actually kind of complicated, because normally he would give the presents to Laura then Peter then Derek because that’s the rank order (alpha then oldest then youngest, and wow, this is so much less complicated than larger packs) but Derek being his boyfriend means that he passes Peter in the order. Probably.

And ugh, pack politics. This is his job and it still sometimes drives him nuts.

Derek is in the middle of the puppy pile, head on Laura’s back, looking super fucking relaxed, which is awesome, because Derek needs it. They all sort of straighten out when he walks in, though only enough to be vaguely separate entities each with at least one free hand. Which is really all they need.

Stiles hands Laura’s present over first, keeping hold on to the other two because it’s kind of like with eating, where everyone waits for the alpha to start eating before eating themselves. Because packs are weird.

She unwraps it like she has to preserve wrapping paper, then pulls off the top of the box and freezes. “Is this an Isaac Lahey scarf?”

Stiles shrugs. “Yeah. I guess technically that’s more from Isaac, but yeah. Apparently he thinks red is your color. I hope red is your color.”

She pulls the scarf out, shifting it in her hands, and Stiles knows how awesome Isaac’s scarves feel. “This is awesome. Thank you.”

“Well, if you want to thank Isaac…do you have an Instagram?” She shakes her head. “Well, if you get an Instagram and tag him in a picture of you with the scarf, you might actually break him. Or I could post a picture of you with the scarf. Either way. Anyway.” He holds out the other two boxes at the same time, because ha, he can circumvent pack rank issues.

Derek and Peter each take theirs at the same time, but then Derek puts his in his lap, so okay, maybe not totally circumventing pack rank issues. But this one is arguably not his fault. Ha.

Peter is a much less careful unwrapper, and Laura starts laughing almost as soon as he starts. But he just scowls at Stiles. “I’m not sure what you think you’re playing at.”

Stiles gestures towards the book in his hands. “Chapter three has a whole section on how not to maim people. I thought it might come in handy.”

Derek cranes his neck around to look at the present. “Werewolves?”

“ _Werewolves for Dummies._ We bought a copy for Liam after he got turned, because he kept freaking the fuck out on trees every time he turned.”

Laura nudges Peter in the shoulder, then looks at Derek. “What did you get?”

Derek pulls his apart, and Stiles struggles to keep the smile off his face as Derek pulls the present out of the box. And it takes him a second, and then a smile crosses his face as he looks up at Stiles and asks, “Really? Socks?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter of the Hales after this, and then we go to Beacon Hills, and then we have a new semester.
> 
> I'm thinking of (at some point) writing a short Cole voyeur piece and a Hales immediately post-fire piece and maybe a what-Stiles-smells-like-to-Derek piece. Yea? Nay? Anything else?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a brief conversation about Kate and statutory sexual assault.

Stiles wakes up to warm wet heat against his hipbone and his hips jerking forward, gasping at the feeling of hands closing around his thighs. “Oh, Jesus, please.”

“Derek,” Derek tells him, sucking on a spot on his hip. “I hope you know who you’re in bed with.”

“Love you.” Stiles’s hips jerk again, and Derek’s hands close even tighter over his thighs. “Christ. ‘s your birthday. Shouldn’t I be getting you off?”

It takes Derek a second to answer, because he’s licking a line down Stiles’s thigh. “Want to get you off. Happy birthday to me. Color?”

Stiles moans, arching his hips up as Derek’s hair brushes against his dick, which is already rock hard. “Green.”

Derek shifts up, tongue sweeping up the entire length of his cock before his mouth closes over it. And it doesn’t take long for him to come, and almost before Derek is done swallowing he pulls Derek up to kiss him, tasting himself, reaching down to close his hand around Derek where he’s hard underneath the covers. Derek moans into his mouth.

Stiles smiles into the kiss. “You want me to get you off?”

Derek kisses him back for a moment, then says, “Shower.”

They manage to half-tumble out of bed and into the shower, which is even bigger than the shower in Derek’s apartment and gets hot way faster; Stiles gets down on his knees with the water pouring down on their heads and takes Derek’s cock in his mouth, sucking as Derek thrusts into his mouth. Derek’s fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, and it’s almost enough to get him hard again.

Finally, after Derek comes down his throat, Stiles climbs to his feet, wiping his hand against his mouth. Cum mixed with morning breath is definitely not his favorite thing, but getting Derek off is, so it’s okay. And the look on Derek’s face, as blissed out as it is, is definitely worth it.

Stiles kisses his collarbone. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.” Derek starts soaping up his hands, then running them over Stiles’s arms, his chest, and Stiles closes his eyes, relishing in the feeling. “I love you.”

“Love you too.” He lets himself be crowded against the wall, Derek’s hands running all over him. “Have any plans for your birthday?”

Derek kisses him. “We could stay in bed all day. That would be a nice birthday.”

“What’s the likelihood that Laura or Peter would leave us alone all day?”

Derek sighs, dropping his head down on Stiles’s shoulder. Stiles wraps an arm around him, sucking on the closest part of his neck. “Right. Basically none.”

“What do you usually do on your birthday?”

“We ignore each other until dinner, when we celebrate. Then we usually go back to ignoring each other. Usually I write.”

“Then you can write today.” Stiles shrugs. “You know I don’t mind, though I guess I probably shouldn’t give you a blowjob with your sister or uncle around.”

Derek picks his head up, running his thumb across Stiles’s jaw. “You’re really okay with me spending my birthday writing?”

Stiles shrugs again. “Look, it’s your birthday. I can always find ways of entertaining myself, as long as you pull the birthday card to keep me from being dragged out with Laura for coffee again.”

“Okay.” Derek stares at him for a second, then asks, “Socks? Really?”

“You said I shouldn’t get them socks for Christmas. That didn’t mean I shouldn’t get _you_ socks for Christmas. And I have a real present for you, don’t worry.”

“You didn’t need to get me anything.”

“Right.” Stiles rolls his eyes, reaching around Derek to grab the soap bar. “Like you’re not getting me something for my birthday.”

Derek shrugs. “You never know.” He snatches the soap from Stiles, then adds, “Actually, I have no idea when your birthday is, so I might not get you anything.”

“April 8th.” Stiles kisses Derek again, then pushes him out of the way so Stiles can stand more under the water. “Mark your calendars, because we’re having a big celebration. If the 8th is on a weekend. Otherwise we’re having a big celebration on the nearest weekend. The misfortunes of being an actual adult.”

“I’ll save the date.” Derek turns Stiles around, pulling his back against Derek’s chest and wrapping his arms around Stiles’s waist. Stiles leans back against Derek, head against his shoulder. “I love you.”

“You’re just saying that so I’ll give you another blowjob.” Derek snorts, pinching Stiles’s hip. “Ow.”

Derek runs a hand up to his throat, bracketing it. Stiles lets out a long exhale, a little shaky, and he feels his heart rate slow. “That’s good. You’re so good.”

“S’all you.”

The hand tightens a little. “You’re the one who trusts me.”

Stiles smiles, and his eyes are closed, and he doesn’t remember closing them. “S’mostly you. I know you’ll keep me safe.” And with his Derek at his back and his neck protected, he feels safe.

Derek sighs. “I should tell you about Cora.”

Stiles stiffens, because from what little he had gleaned, he thought Cora was a subject Derek wasn’t going to bring up. Whoever Cora is. “Okay.”

Derek sighs again. “I can’t tell you about Cora when we’re naked.”

“Right.”

They finish up their shower quickly, most of the desire gone, but that’s okay, because Stiles is pretty sure there isn’t another time Derek is going to talk about her, so he doesn’t want to delay.

Once they’re mostly dressed—boxers and t-shirts, sitting across from each other on the massive bed. Stiles puts a hand on Derek’s ankle, because he looks like he needs the touch. And honestly, Stiles needs it, too.

“Cora—” Derek breaks off, pressing the heel of his palm against his eye. “Cora was my sister. Our sister, Laura’s and mine. She was four years younger than me. Twelve. She was twelve when the fire happened, when she—so my family, the whole family, the whole pack, there were a lot of us, and it didn’t really matter that much who was siblings and who was cousins. I mean, Peter was basically a cousin more than he was an uncle, and there were a bunch of us, but Cora and I were close. And I know that probably sounds weird, because she was twelve and I was sixteen, but the two of us…I was the one who looked after her.”

Derek cuts himself off again, hand rubbing his mouth, and Stiles strokes his ankle. “That sounds normal to me.”

“Yeah, well, the thing is that one of the things that Kate got me to do was stop spending so much time with Cora. She told me that Cora was just a kid, that I shouldn’t be hanging out with her, and I listened, because I wanted her to like me. The reason Laura and I weren’t caught in the fire, the night it happened, was that we were out at a school thing. Cora was going to come too, we were going to bring her, but I said I didn’t want to be seen with my little sister at school, and I refused to bring her. So she, uh…that’s why she was there. At home. Because of me. So even ignoring the fact that I got my entire family burned down in our house, I suck at keeping people safe.”

Oh, Jesus, Derek. Stiles leans forward towards Derek, then stops, because sometimes when Derek is talking about stuff like this, he doesn’t react well to touch. “Can I give you a hug?”

Derek hesitates then nods, and Stiles climbs on top of him, wrapping his arms around him; they overbalance and fall onto the pillows, and for a moment they just lay there, Stiles’s head pressed against Derek’s collarbone. Finally, Stiles says, “It’s not your fault. I know you don’t want to keep hearing this, that what Kate did isn’t your fault, but it’s not your fault that she killed our family, and it’s not your fault she talked you into things.”

Derek makes an irritated noise, and Stiles pushes up off of him, sitting on top of his abdomen, hands on Derek’s wrists.

And then Stiles sighs. “Okay, look, so here’s the thing, and I know you know this logically, but I also know you’re not thinking about this logically. What Kate did to you was statutory rape. You were sixteen. You were sixteen and her job was literally to convince you to isolate yourself from your family, and yes, you listened to her, but that’s because she’s really good at her job. So you need to get over it. And that might sound mean and shitty and you can get mad at me all you want, but you didn’t kill your family, and you didn’t kill your sister.”

He closes his eyes, then opens them again, and they’re glowing blue. Stiles flinches a little, instinctively, and Derek closes them again. Shit. “Then what about these?”

“Eye color change from gold to blue is at last sixty percent psychological. It happens when you take an innocent life. What counts as innocent? That’s decided in your head. What counts as killing? That’s decided in your head, too. You think you killed your family, so your eyes turned blue. I’m not—look, I know I can’t fix everything in your head. I’m not going to fix everything in your head. Honestly, I’m not even going to try to. But you can’t keep using this”—he taps him under the eye—“as a way to blame yourself for what happened. Because it keeps tearing you apart, every time you think about it, every time you try not to think about it. I know what this is like. I didn’t lose my pack, and I can’t imagine losing my pack, but I spent most of my life blaming myself for the death of my mother, because we ignored the fact that she was forgetting things, and she died from a form of early onset dementia. And doing this fucks you up. So just…stop. Please. If you can’t do it for yourself, yet, do it for me.”

Derek opens his normal-again eyes to stare at Stiles for a long moment, and then he reaches up and pulls down on top of him; Stiles goes willingly, even if Derek hasn’t agreed to anything yet. Because one person telling you it’s not your fault, no matter how many times, doesn’t fix anything. He knows that all too well.

\--

Dinner consists of the largest roasted chicken Stiles has ever seen, about four pounds of mashed potatoes, and more broccoli. Because apparently they like the evil furry tree food. Also, it’s very all-American, like weirdly so, given that the family doesn’t seem particularly all-American. Despite Laura being a congresswoman.

A few minutes in, Laura looks at Derek. “So, any plans for being a year older?”

Derek swallows the truly amazing amount of food in his mouth, then says, “If I don’t finish edits on this manuscript in the next month, my editor might actually kill me.”

“You thought about heading somewhere other than California? Like, not permanently, but…well, you do spend a lot of time in California.”

Derek’s jaw clenches. “I’ve told you, I can’t—this territory is too hard for me stay in long-term. It feels too much like other people’s territory.”

Laura shakes her head. “I wish you could be here more, but I was talking more about…well, anywhere else. Paris, Tokyo, Jakarta. You spend so much time holed up in your apartment in California, you should branch out, go other places.”

Derek stabs a piece of chicken on his plate. “Stiles lives in California.”

“He can go with you.”

The stab shoves the chicken into Derek’s pile of potatoes. “Stiles works in California. And I don’t want to go running around the world in other people’s territory. What’s that supposed to do for me? If I wanted to see Jakarta, I would have gone to Jakarta.”

Laura sighs, putting her fork down. “I’m sorry, Derek. I’m not trying to push you. I just want you to be happy.”

“I’m fine.”

Peter opens his mouth for the first time, smirking and saying, “You know, it might do you some good to get away from California for some time. Get some space, some perspective.”

Oh, Jesus. Stiles knows Peter doesn’t like him, and he has a pretty good reason of two reasons why—Kate, and his lack of fangs—but it’s not okay that he goes after Derek for it. But Stiles doesn’t want to pick a fight with him, not here, so he just grabs Derek’s hand in his, resting it on the table. Derek smiles at him, then says, “I don’t need space or perspective, and also, fuck off.”

Laura rolls her eyes. “Seriously? Have both of you been reduced to being this juvenile? I wasn’t trying to suggest that Derek should go anywhere without Stiles if he doesn’t want to, and also, I should have known better than to bring it up. Can we just—ugh, I’m so much better at this when I’m in congresswoman mode. Someone cause an international incident so I can go call the president or something.”

Stiles nods. “I’ll get right on that.”

Derek’s lip twitch up into what’s almost a smile, which, success. “Knowing you, you could probably manage it, too.”

After they’re done with dinner, Laura brings out a cake that pointedly doesn’t say happy birthday on it, and Stiles eats a couple of normal-sized pieces while Derek, Laura, and Peter devour a solid three-quarts of it. And then apparently it’s time for presents, because Laura ushers them all into the living room area where she hands Derek a wrapped package of what ends up being a nice notebook. From Peter he gets a pen.

They then all look at Stiles.

“My gift is probably better in…private.”

Laura snorts. “If it’s a blowjob, I’d rather not watch, so I appreciate it.”

“It’s not a blowjob.”

“You’re not going to give me a blowjob?”

Stiles scrubs his hand across his face. “I’ll give you a blowjob, but that’s not your present. And also, wow, born werewolves are so much less puritanical than the rest of the world.”

Laura raises her eyebrows. “You don’t have any born wolves in your pack?”

“We have a couple of born…not-wolves, but no. Scott was turned by a rogue alpha, and then he turned Isaac and Liam in high school.”

“Consensually, I’m assuming.”

Right. Yes. He always actually forgets that it’s not totally legal to turn someone under the age of eighteen. “Isaac’s turn was legal under the Hellie Act, and Liam’s turn was legal under the Smith-Allens Act.” Turning underage people who give their consent while in the process of dying and turning underage people who have given their consent in a position where not turning them will lead to their death respectively. “I know my laws, and Scott was in the right in both cases.”

She holds up her hands defensively. “It wasn’t an attack. Just habit. I’ve seen too many cases of nonconsensual underage turning to not ask.”

“Yeah, well, Scott was the only one turned against his will, and that alpha is long dead.”

She nods. “I heard about that. Alpha McCall became alpha after the death of the rogue.”

“Yep. And we all lived happily ever after.”

Peter looks over at him. “Didn’t a human kill that rogue?”

Stiles stiffens. “What does that matter?”

“Well it’s just curious that there was no Hunter’s report, and hunting is only legal when you’re over eighteen.”

Both of which are technically true, and Stiles knows that what he did wasn’t actually technically legal because you can only be considered a legal hunter—even if you have no certification—when you’re over eighteen. Fun times, that. “Good luck trying to get me indicted for killing a murderous rogue years ago with nobody to back up your story.”

“It’s murder.”

Stiles bares his teeth. “Have you ever heard of self-defense?”

Peter smirks at him. “So you admit it?”

“I just asked you if you’d ever heard of self-defense.”

“Enough.” Laura looks at Peter, then at Stiles. “Whatever you think, we’re not going to go after you. The eighteen rule is a human construct, anyway, and besides, what would be gained from trying to get you arrested? Other than Derek never speaking to either of us again.”

Derek looks around, then says, “You know what, I think I want my present now. Not here.”

\--

Once they get down to Derek’s level, Stiles points Derek to one of the chairs, saying, “Sit. Please.”

Derek sits with an indulgent smile, watching as Stiles pulls a box out of his backpack. It’s not wrapped, but it’s made of nice dark wood, with a discreet latch on the front. Stiles takes a second in front of his backpack, trying to get his breathing under control before he turns and walks over to where Derek is sitting.

Once in front of him, he gets on his knees between Derek’s legs, offering the box to him.

“Stiles?”

Stiles looks up at him. “We never did the collar thing, and as far as I know, that’s not really something either of us are into. So I thought I would do something a little more…us.” Derek takes the box from him, opening it, and he’s silent for so long that Stiles things he might have screwed up. “If it’s not—I know you’ve been the one buying this stuff before, and I don’t know if that’s a thing, if that’s something that you want to be yours, if that’s something you want to just do, but I thought if nothing else it was kind of symbolic, showing that I’m giving it to you, maybe help you remember that you’re not taking it.”

Derek pulls the gag and key from the box before setting it aside, and then one of his hands lands on Stiles’s hair, tangling in it. Stiles keeps watching Derek, but he can’t read what’s on his face, not from this angle. Finally, Derek says, voice hoarse, “I love you.”

Stiles smiles at him. “I love you, too.”

Derek moves his hand to cup Stiles’s cheek. “Why are you kneeling?”

Stiles shrugs. “It felt right. I can get up if you don’t like it.”

Derek shakes his head. “No, just…stay there for a minute. Please. Thank you.”

Stiles nods, closing his eyes and leaning his cheek against Derek’s jean-clad leg. They stay there for a long moment, Derek stroking his fingers through Stiles’s hair and the two of them breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you want to read some of my original fiction, check out 510a.wordpress.com. Also, the first part of the post-fire piece is up at "the substance from which i am made" for those of you who would like to be made sad.


	11. Chapter 11

“So.” Stiles looks at Derek, who’s staring at the road like he’s afraid the guy in front of him is going to stop suddenly. Or spontaneously combust. Which, given how shitty the car looks, might actually be possible. “I don’t know if I said this before, but you’re welcome to stay for the pack stuff. Like the cuddling. And stuff. If you want to.” He shrugs. “No pressure. Like actually, I’m not just saying that. If you’re, like, no, can’t do that, nobody will judge, least of all me. I am going to stay, because pack, but I won’t judge.”

Derek glances at him, then looks up at the rearview mirror, tapping on the breaks. “Goddamn tailgater.” He looks at Stiles again. “I’ll…think about it.”

Stiles shrugs. “’kay. And I—” He sticks his thumb between his teeth, chews on it for a second. It’s been…not weird, exactly, the flight over, but he’s definitely glad to be away from the stress that is Laura and Peter, even if he can feel the tree again, pulsing like a bruise at the base of his skull. “I’m going to need to stop by the tree while I’m here, and you can’t come with me.” Derek open his mouth, but Stiles steamrolls over him, saying, “Look, it’s not about not trusting you or not wanting you there or whatever you’re going to say. It’s to keep you safe, and it’s to keep me safe, and it’s because the tree does weird things with new people and I need to talk to it when it’s as normal as possible.”

“You talk about it like it’s sentient.”

“It is definitely one hundred percent sentient, and I know now you’re wondering, how can a tree be sentient, but it’s a magic tree. And, look, I can’t—going to talk to the tree is going to suck, and I can tell you right now it’s going to suck for you, and I know I’m psyching you out now but it’s better for you to be prepared, and also I’m going to do this as early in the trip as possible so I don’t have to sit around worrying about what it’s going to say, which means I’m going to try to see it today, and honestly, I’d rather not do this, but I made a deal with it, and god, I hate that tree.”

Derek’s lips tighten, and then he sighs, the tension draining out of his shoulders. “I’m not going to—you don’t need to defend yourself to me, Stiles.”

Indignation rises up in him, because he’s unhelpful like that, and he starts to say, “I’m not—”

“Stiles.” He clamps his mouth shut. “Stiles, I’m not arguing with you.”

Stiles blinks at him. “Why do you keep saying my name?”

“I’m hoping it’ll get you to listen.”

“What am I, a puppy or something? Down, Stiles. Off the couch, Stiles. Stop chewing on my shoes, Stiles, and go chew on Peter’s instead.”

Derek grins at him, and a second later Stiles finds himself smiling back. “Look, I trust that you’re not going to run away the second I turn my back, or disappear. My issues are not on you, and…I’m getting better.”

Stiles’s heart does a funny thing in his chest. “Yeah, you are.” He takes in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “Okay, let’s try this again. Welcome back to California. Belated happy winter solstice. Thank god it’s not as cold here as it was in New York.”

He rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t that cold.”

“You’re furry and made of werewolf. I think I’m the one who gets to say whether or not it’s cold out.”

“Made of werewolf?”

“What else would you call it?”

Derek smirks at him. “Muscled.”

And that’s true, but also, “Speaking of that, how did you end up so muscled? Like, I never see you working out or anything. You don’t even seem to run. Which, also, werewolf. You seem remarkably composed except for your little full moon jaunts in the forest. Scott’s control is never that good, and he’s an alpha.”

“Alpha doesn’t actually mean better control, it just means easier control. They still have to work for it, just like I do. But it’s easier for born wolves, largely because we train from birth.”

“I know that, but—” His phone buzzes, and he glances at it, but it’s just an email from the school about some upcoming event. “I guess I’m so used to hanging out with only born wolves that I forget how much of a difference it can make. And Scott—I basically had to teach him control based primarily off of the internet, so it’s not surprising his control has always been a little bit…interesting.”

Derek glances at him, eyes wide. “You didn’t tell anyone who could help you? I mean, there hasn’t been enforced segregation anywhere in the country in almost thirty years, and California’s always been good to us.”

It’s still hard even now to think about it outside of back, outside of people he doesn’t need to explain it to. “Scott was sixteen and packless, basically rogue. We didn’t know who the alpha was, but the law said unless we could prove abuse he belonged to the alpha.”

“That’s not how it—”

“We were sixteen, and the alpha was hunting people. I’m not saying it was the best decision, or the decision I would have made at twenty-five, but people were _dying_ , and Scott was a new werewolf, and we didn’t know what to do. So we didn’t tell anyone, and his mom found out and my dad found out and Isaac found out and I killed the alpha and haven’t slept since. And werewolves can’t play lacrosse, werewolves can’t do sports, werewolves can’t do a lot of things, and we were _sixteen_.”

Derek reaches out with one hand, and Stiles grabs it, clinging on to him. Because this is pain, always will be, and he doesn’t think it’ll ever stop hurting, because some of the things they did then, some of the things they saw, they’re not something that you’re supposed to do or see, especially not when you’re that young. Because he stabbed someone in the heart and left the knife there, and then he kept stabbing him because it was the only way he could kill him, and Scott was dying and Allison didn’t know and he couldn’t let Lydia get involved, and everything with slick with blood, his blood mixing with the rogue’s, and he never knew the rogue’s name.

They never knew the rogue’s name.

Derek’s hand tightens, suddenly, and Stiles flinches, coming back to himself. He’s shaking, and even he can smell his fear. “Jesus. Sorry. Okay, we’re putting this chat on hold until I’m with pack, because if you want to hear any more about that I’m going to need at least a couple packmates sitting on top of me.”

Derek nods. “You don’t need to tell me, but I would listen if you wanted to talk.”

Stiles nods and opens his mouth to thank him, but what comes out is, “I thought I was going to die.”

The hand convulses around his. “Stiles—”

“I had to kill him close; we didn’t have access to wolfsbane and I didn’t know about Allison at that point, so I couldn’t use a gun even if I wanted to. He caught a piece of my spleen with his claws, a few other places on my chest. The spleen was the worst.” He started saying it, he needs to finish it. “I thought I was going to bleed out, and it was okay, because I’d just stabbed someone in the heart, and I deserved it.”

The car swerves slightly, people honking around them, and then Derek changes lanes abruptly, ending up at the shoulder with the car engine switched off. “What the _fuck_ , Stiles.”

Stiles shoves a hand through his hair before pressing his palms against his lids. Colors dance in front of the darkness. “Sorry. I didn’t really mean to—I kind of forget what’s normal when I’m talking about stuff like this, because it’s always with pack, and it’s been a long time, and we’re all fucked up, and I didn’t mean to say it but the filter between my brain and my mouth doesn’t always work super well, and I was thinking about it, and I’m sorry.”

Derek reaches up to slide a hand through Stiles’s hair, and he doesn’t feel secure enough to close his eyes with all these windows around, so he just leans against Derek’s arm. “You don’t need to apologize for saying it. That’s not—you killed a rogue, Stiles. You didn’t deserve to die for that.”

Stiles shrugs. “I know. I know that now. I don’t want to die. But like I said, I was sixteen. You remember being sixteen.”

Derek flinches. “Yeah, I remember being sixteen.”

Fuck. Right. The fire was when he was sixteen. “Okay, I’m actually not going to keep talking about this without pack around.”

Derek swallows, then asks, “Would you mind if we stopped at the hotel first? I need to remind myself that you’re not dead. Without anyone else around.”

Fuck. “Yeah. We can—I’ll call Scott, telling him we’ll be late. I’m sorry.”

Derek shakes his head, shoving his free hand across his face. “Not—it’s not your fault. I just can’t—I need you to smell like just me for a little bit, not like airport or car or—or your pack. I need—” He leans over to bury his face in Stiles’s neck, and Stiles can feel more than hear him suck in a deep breath, his entire body shuddering. “The thought of you fighting an alpha, the thought of you _dying_ —” His voice breaks on the last word, and he shudders again.

Stiles presses a hand against Derek’s head, holding him close. “I’m fine. I promise you, I’m fine. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m fine.”

Derek makes a small noise against his neck. “If you’d died then I never would have met you. I can’t—I can’t think about that. You’re—you’re it for me.”

Stiles’s heart skips a beat, because Jesus, that’s quite a declaration. Because werewolves don’t usually lie about stuff like that, not like humans do. And Derek _wouldn’t_ lie about something like that, or say it if he didn’t mean it. And Stiles doesn’t know if he can say it back, because he doesn’t think like that about stuff, so he just says, “I love you.”

Derek nods against his neck, then pulls away, though he keeps one hand wrapped around Stiles’s. “Call Scott.”

Stiles pulls out his phone as Derek turns back into traffic, and Scott picks up on the second ring. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Just wanted to let you know we’re going to be later than expected getting up to Beacon Hills. Best guess is probably an hour or so late.”

Scott’s voice drops into concerned territory, with just a hint of Alpha behind it. “Is something wrong?”

Stiles glances at Derek, who is still basically sheet white, then says, “I freaked Derek out talking about the rogue, and we need a little…reassurance time.”

“Understood. You’ll be in-territory, right?”

“Yeah. We’re almost there now, maybe fifteen minutes out from the territory and another ten from the hotel.”

“Sounds good.”

\--

By the time they get to the hotel, Derek looks a little steadier, though he’s still trembling a little, and he herds Stiles into the lobby and up to the concierge, one hand slid under his shirt so high it’s almost pressed up against his ribs. Stiles feels like he must look like a callboy, bruises around his wrists that are obviously from hands and the edge of a half-healed bite mark showing from underneath his collar with a werewolf being possessive as hell over him in the middle of a hotel, but whatever. It was actually something he considered going into to help pay for college, being a callboy for werewolves, because he’s good with werewolves and doesn’t mind sex and really needed the money before he get a second scholarship, but Scott threatened to leave if he came back smelling like a different werewolf every night.

And Stiles is also not very good at casual sex.

The concierge almost falls all over herself once she realizes he’s Derek Hale because they don’t get many important people—or their siblings—and also because he’s hot, and so it takes a solid extra ten minutes of her trying to make sure that there’s nothing else she can do for him, really, she can try to see if there’s a better room available, there might be an opening in the Emperor Suite, is he sure he doesn’t want it.

Finally, Derek extricates himself, looking entertainingly super uncomfortable, and Stiles just presses his face against Derek’s chest and grins because he can get away with it here where nobody knows him.

By the time they get to the elevator, Derek is growling under his breath, his hand clenched around the suitcase handle, seeming to try to figure out how to herd him while also grabbing Stiles’s bag and not letting anyone near him, and yeah, okay, hypervigilance buddies, this is going to be fun.

Someone else gets in the elevator with the two of them, glancing over at where Stiles is basically stuck in the corner.

Stiles gives her a wave. “Hi.”

She blinks at him. “You…okay?”

Derek growls, herding Stiles even further into the corner, and okay, Derek is way unhappier than Stiles thought in the car. Though that might have something to do with the smells of everyone around him.

Stiles ducks around him to reassure the woman, saying, “Yeah, I’m good.” He pats Derek on the shoulder. “He’s just being a bit protective at the moment.”

The woman nods knowingly. “I dated a werewolf once. He wanted me to throw out my entire mattress.” The elevator stops, the doors sliding open, and she says, “Well, nice to meet you.”

Stiles nods. “You too.”

The doors slide shut, and Derek relaxes a hair. Stiles glances at the floor number; six floors left, and then hopefully he can get Derek to calm the fuck down enough to deal with other people.

He touches a hand to Derek’s face, and Derek lets out a slow breath. “I know you’re freaking out a little bit, but you need to breathe before you give some old lady a heart attack.”

“Everything smells like other people and not like you.”

Stiles fights the urge to sigh. “That’s because we’re in a place with other people. I’m fine. It was like ten years ago. I’m fine.”

“And my brain hasn’t stopped freaking out yet, because you said you had wanted to die, and you almost died, and—” He snaps his mouth shut as the elevator stops and the doors slide open. He moves over to the doors, pulling everything with him in a show of werewolf stubbornness before going back to herding Stiles down the hallway. The empty hallway. This is kind of ridiculous. Stiles isn’t going to argue, but it’s ridiculous.

Stiles pulls the key card from Derek’s pocket because Derek literally has his hands full, then stabs it into the door. Then tries again, because apparently the arrow actually has to be pointed at the door. Go figure.

Derek pushes him into the room, dropping their stuff right in front of the closed door and then _picking Stiles up, what the fuck._

Stiles twists to look Derek in the face as he starts walking towards the bed. “Hi?”

Derek looks down at him. “I need to hold you.”

“Okay. This going to be sex?”

“No.”

“You want me gagged?”

“No.”

“You want me to stop talking?”

“No.”

Okay, then. Derek drops him down on the bed, flopping down on top of him before he can bounce too much. He buries his face against Stiles’s neck, mouth open and wet and warm against his skin. “You’re going to give me a hickey, aren’t you?”

Derek licks a line against his throat, then mumbles, “Probably.”

Fantastic. Whatever. Pack wouldn’t care. “We should probably take our shoes off.”

Derek twines one leg arounds Stiles’s, pushing down on it. “No.”

Lovely. Stiles exhales, then asks, “Do you really want me to keep talking, or do you want to listen to my heartbeat?”

After a second, sounding a little bit ashamed, Derek mutters, “Heartbeat.”

It’s not something to be ashamed about (Scott once spent _four hours_ on top of Stiles listening to his heartbeat, which was kind of weird because they were both sixteen, when spontaneous erections were still kind of a thing), but Derek also has issues, so Stiles just says, “Okay, I’ll shut up now.”

Derek hums, then starts sucking against his throat, the feeling vibrating through him, and finally he lets himself close his eyes and relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So nothing I had planned to have happen in the chapter actually happened, but it'll happen in the next chapter, so that's kind of the same. Also, we will see PACK!


	12. Chapter 12

Stiles jerks upright at the first vibration in his pocket, or tries to, except Derek is asleep on top of him, teeth still closed loosely around his throat. Stiles eases back down a few inches because even blunt teeth hurt, wrestling his still-vibrating phone out of his pocket and up to his ear by throwing it at his head by his trapped hand, then using his free-but-wrong-place hand to answer it and push it up against his ear.

“’lo?”

“Scott wants to know when you’ll be getting here.”

Stiles moves his phone in front of his eyes enough to look at the time, and shit, they’ve been asleep for like three hours. “Give us like half an hour. Tell him sorry.”

Allison laughs. “Not your owl.”

“Does that make me Harry or Ron?”

She snorts, and Derek stirs next to him, because of course that wakes him up while Stiles flailing doesn’t. “I’ll see you in half an hour.”

“Why can’t I be Luna?”

“Bye, Stiles.”

“Or Ginny? Ginny’s a badass.”

“ _Bye_ , Stiles.” She hangs up, and he lets the phone drop onto the bed.

Derek curls up tighter against him, half-gnawing on his throat. Which is honestly just getting kind of weird. “Ugh.”

Stiles brings his hand up to drag his fingers through Derek’s hair. “We have to get up. We fell asleep.”

Derek burrows even closer. “Can we go back to sleep?”

“No.” Stiles pulls at Derek’s hair, and Derek growls at him. “Shush. I told my alpha half an hour. We need to get up.”

“Urgh.” Derek flops over so he’s off of Stiles, who climbs on top of his legs and rubbing at the front of Derek’s jeans. “Nnh.”

“It’s enough time to get you off.” Derek doesn’t say anything, but his hips jerk a little when Stiles slides the heel of his palm up Derek’s zipper. Because they were dumb enough to go to sleep in jeans. “I need an answer. Yes or no?”

Derek opens his eyes just wide enough to blink at him, and then he groans. “I want to spend more than five minutes playing with you.” And then, to be totally unhelpful, he reaches out and undoes the button of Stiles’s jeans, dragging down his zipper. “How likely are we to come back here tonight?”

“I’m probably going to see the Nemeton, so not likely.” Derek nods, sliding a hand inside of Stiles’s jeans. “Weren’t we waiting on this?”

Derek’s hand closes, and Stiles’s eyelids flutter shut as desire shoots through him and he goes half-hard. Derek laughs. “I’m not going to get you off.”

“Come on.” Stiles opens his eyes again, licking his lips. “Really?”

“I could make you come like this, but I won’t let you change.” His fingers stroke down Stiles’s length, and Stiles shudders. “Would you prefer that?”

“No.”

Derek pats him once, sending pleasure shooting though him, then zips him back up and fastens the button; Stiles’s pants feel tight now, and he hopes his erection goes away before they get to Scott’s house, because otherwise that’ll be awkward. Then Derek grins at him. “Up. I have to go pee.”

Stiles sighs, then rolls off of him, flopping on his back on the bed. It’s an awesome bed, though they’re going to need to pull the covers down at some point because it’s at that weird point where it’s all tangled up but still perfectly tucked in, and it’s bothering him.

Derek comes out of the bathroom a minute later, during which time Stiles stares at the ceiling and contemplates setting the tree on fire. Derek stares at him for a moment, then sighs. “Want to get going?”

Stiles rolls off the bed and onto the floor, which, ow. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

\--

Allison is waiting outside Scott’s place when they get there, and she wraps her arms around him almost before he’s out of his side of the car; her fingers dig into his shoulders as she clings on to him. He holds on just as tight, leaning down to bury his face in her hair. Because pack, and friend, and Jesus he misses them so much all the fucking time.

Finally, she pulls back, brushing a piece of hair out of her face. “Scott says hi and welcomes Derek to the territory and wants you both to not freak out at the blood.”

“That’s not making me feel like I’m not going to freak out, because what blood, exactly?”

Allison rolls her eyes, which is a relief, at the very least. “Scott tried to cut vegetables and…missed.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

She nods. “Yeah, no kidding. He’s the one good at patching people up, so Isaac is currently flailing around trying to be useful and failing while Lydia supervises.”

“And Scott is bleeding all over everything?”

“He’s probably mostly healed at this point, though he took a solid chunk out of his arm.”

“His _arm_?”

Allison shakes her head. “Fuck if I know. I think he was staring at Isaac.”

Jesus. Stiles leans over to pull his backpack from the floor, except it’s not there anymore, because Derek is ridiculous. So he straightens back out, closing the door behind him. “Is everyone here?”

“Liam’s dad wanted him to do something and Kira is avoiding us, but everyone else is here. Last I checked Malia was laughing at Scott.”

Of course she was. “Are we having any of the affiliates over while we’re here?”

She glances over at Derek, who’s standing near the front of the car, and yeah, that’s why he’s asking. “Probably not, though Mason might show up.”

But not her dad. Good. “So are we heading in, or are you just keeping us out here until Scott manages to find himself a bandaid.”

“No, we can head in.” She looks at Derek. “Hi. Sorry, I wasn’t trying to ignore you. Welcome back to McCall territory.”

Scott has apparently found a bandage by the time they get in, because he’s standing at the counter of the kitchen scrubbing at a disturbing amount of blood when they get in. He turns to wave at them with a hand full of bloody sponge.

Because Scott.

“Hey.” He waves again, and a little bit of bloody water splatters on his face. Which is just fucking fantastic. “Sorry, I’ll be done in a second.”

Allison looks over at him, then sighs, heading over to the kitchen. “Give me the sponge. And at some point I’m going to have a conversation with your mother about how you learned how to clean.”

Scott hands over the sponge and gives her a short kiss before turning on the faucet and rinsing off his hands. Then he hurries over to them, wrapping Stiles in a hug. “Merry Christmas. I might never let you leave.”

Stiles snorts, rubbing his face against Scott’s because scent marking and also Stiles missed him. “I don’t think my students will be too happy with that. Or my bosses.”

“Yeah.” Scott pulls away, then lunges towards Derek, throwing his arms around him. Derek blinks at him, looking faintly alarmed, and then Scott jerks away, staring at him. “Sorry. I like giving people hugs.”

Derek shrugs. “It’s fine.”

Scott looks at Stiles again. “Presents?”

“Tree.”

Scott sighs. “Tree. Okay. I want you to talk to Deaton first, see if he knows what’s going on. I don’t want you to keep banging your head against a wall—or the tree—if there’s someone who has answers for us.”

“Deaton won’t tell me anything even if he does have answers, just out of spite.”

Scott’s eyes narrow. “Talk to him anyway.”

“Fine.” Stiles looks at Derek. “Want to come meet the guy who’s kind of our emissary sometimes?”

“When you put it that way, how can I refuse?”

Stiles laughs, looking at Scott. “Anyone else coming with us?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, territory’s safe. But come back after the meeting.”

“Will do.” He grabs Derek’s hand, then says, “You can leave the backpack here.”

Scott holds his hand out, and after a second, Derek hands it over; Scott slings it over his shoulder, saying, “I’ll stick it in Isaac’s old room until we figure out the situation for tonight.”

“Thanks. Let’s go.”

He plays GPS for Derek because he’s been to Deaton’s so many times between giving Scott a ride and using the office as a safe haven from the monster of the year that it’s not even funny. It’s honestly a miracle the building is still standing, considering everything it’s been attacked by.

There aren’t any cars in the parking lot besides Deaton’s, so they park right by the door and head inside, where Deaton is standing behind the counter, ashline gate closed.

He looks up when the door opens, nodding to Stiles. “Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles waves, wrapping his other arm around Derek’s waist. “Hey. So, uh, this is my boyfriend. Derek.” One of Deaton’s eyebrows goes up slightly, which is basically like him demanding answers, and Stiles adds, “Hale. Derek Hale.”

Deaton _reacts_ , body going still, pencil actually falling from his hand, and then he sighs. “Derek Hale. I didn’t know you were back in California.” Derek starts to shut down, and then Deaton says, “I was emissary to your mother,” and Derek drops away from Stiles to sit down in one of the waiting room chairs.

Stiles crouches down next to him, putting a hand on his knee. “You okay?”

Derek drags a hand through his hair, and it’s shaking. “Yeah. Sorry.” He looks up at Deaton, who’s watching them. “You’re Alan Deaton. I didn’t put that together when they said your name.” Deaton nods. “I’ll—I might want to ask you about it later, but for right now I—Stiles has something to ask you.”

Stiles blinks at him for a second, then says, “Right.” He stands up, and Derek’s thumb hooks in one of the loops on the back of his jeans. “We’re having some issues with the tree.”

“The tree?”

Of course Deaton is going to make him say it. “The Nemeton.”

Deaton nods. “What is happening?”

Stiles pulls away from Derek to start pacing, because he can’t talk about this while standing still. “It wants me to take over the neutral territory that the university is on.”

“How do you know?”

Stiles grabs a pen from Deaton’s desk on his next pass, clicking it out so he can start drawing on his arm, because it’s his arm, it’s his, it’s his. 己, self, he is himself, he belongs to himself and he knows it, and the pain from the pen is just another reminder. “I’m dreaming of it. Not while I was in New York, but in California, most nights I dream of it. Of the tree. It talks to me.” He jerks the collar of his shirt out of the way to show the bite mark on his collarbone. “It wants the territory because it has ley lines.” He switches hands to start marking up his other arm, even though he’s clumsy with it.

Deaton is silent for a second, then says, “You’re human.”

“Yep.”

“According to theory, you shouldn’t be able to take territory.”

“Yep.”

Deaton lets that sit for a moment, which is fine, because Stiles doesn’t have a goddamn answer for the question implicit in that. “Why you and not Lydia Martin?”

Stiles opens his mouth then closes it again because that’s not what he thought Deaton was going go ask. But he does have an answer for this one. “Because according to the Nemeton, I should be alpha. And I would have been, at least, if I was a werewolf, because I was the one that killed the rogue. But I don’t want to be a werewolf, and I don’t want to be alpha.”

“What’s your question, then?”

Stiles stares at the marks on his arms for a second, then asks, “Can the tree make me take the territory?”

Deaton taps on the counter. “What’s the node structure of your pack? As specific as you can be.”

“Tree on top with Scott directly below the tree. We’re all coming out from Scott. But the tree thinks I should be directly connected to it.”

“Rank?”

Stiles doesn’t know what that matters for his question, but whatever. “You know Scott’s alpha. Allison and Isaac are his mates, I’m his second. Lydia is next because Kira’s place is…complicated, and then Malia and then Liam. The non-human members of the pack could probably feel Ethan if he came in-territory, but node-wise he’s more affiliated than pack at this point.”

“Hmm.” Deaton taps on the counter, then says, “If we were talking about anyone else, I would say no, but given your previous connection with the Nemeton and the fact that it has the ability to make non-corporeal experiences manifest corporeally.”

The bite mark. Jesus. Stiles stops pacing, looking at him. “Does that mean it can give me the ability to take the territory, or that it can make me take the territory?”

“The first. Taking territory requires active intention. In most cases, that intention is the same as accepting being alpha, because the alpha node also contains the territory inherent in it.”

Stiles knows that, or he should know that, because this is his goddamn job. “Which is why alphas don’t just take every neutral territory they pass into.”

“The same stands for you; without intending to, you won’t take the territory, no matter if you have the ability to.”

Relief floods through him, so strong he almost loses his balance, catching himself on the edge of the counter. “So I’m fine, then. It doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to take it.”

Deaton meets his eye and doesn’t look away. “Unless you are put in a situation where you are forced into taking it.”

“I’m not taking it.”

Deaton still doesn’t look away, and Stiles is the one to blink, pinning his gaze on the counter. “Do you have any other questions?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No. Thanks.” He leans over to drop the pen back in its cup. “How bad would it be if I burned the tree to the ground?”

Deaton does that weird half-smile. “I wouldn’t recommend it. The tree not only is the Nemeton, it is containing the Nemeton.”

Right. Breaking the container won’t get rid of the firefly. Good to know. “Okay, I’ll keep that in mind.” Finally, he looks back at Derek, who’s staring at him with a look he can’t really read. Which is just as well, because if he’s disappointed in the fact that Stiles might end up taking neutral territory—neutral territory he lives in—Stiles doesn’t really want to know. Blissful ignorance is sometimes fantastic. “Want to head back to the apartment? I have an appointment with a demonic tree.”

\--

There is shouting and acid and the taste of death, and Stiles doesn’t want to move, doesn’t know if he can move, and if he’s going to die this will be a shitty way to go, on the freezing forest floor that smells like vomit and decay.

There’s more shouting, and the sun is bright when he opens his eyes, and he gets one hand down on leaves and soil and then the other and then he’s on his feet and he doesn’t really know how, but he’s moving, he’s walking, and then he’s in someone’s arms, up in the air, and he doesn’t know what’s going on.

A hand touches his face, and it’s wet, and everything smells like blood and pack, and someone is asking something, and he shakes his head, shakes his head, and then he blacks out again.

When he comes to a second time he’s shirtless in the back of Scott’s car with his head in Lydia’s lap, her fingers stroking through his hair. She touches his cheek when his eyes open.

“You with us?” Stiles opens his mouth to say yes, finds his throat has slightly less moisture than a desert, and closes it again, nodding. “Scott, he’s awake.”

From the driver’s seat, Scott asks, “What happened?”

It said no and he can’t and he can’t and he can’t and

He shakes his head, and Lydia runs her fingers through his hair again. It feels good, and he closes his eyes. “Don’t think he’s up for that yet. We should get him back to the house. Hale might be able to help.”

Derek is there. Stiles just wants to curl up on a couch with Derek on top of him and pack around him and sleep until the next year, because he can’t deal with this, not right now. So he just lays there against Lydia, focusing on the way her fingers feel against his scalp and not on the way it’s cold, cold, he’s freezing, he’ll never be warm again.

Sometime later, the car slows to a stop the engine turning off, and then doors start to open, and Isaac asks, “Can you sit up? It’ll be easier for me to pick you up that way.”

Stiles wants to argue that he can walk, but chances are he can’t, so he just pushes his hands against the seat and levers himself vaguely upright, promptly almost falling out of the other side of the car; Isaac catches him, getting one arm under his back and the other under his knees and picking him up like he’s a kid.

And Isaac is warm, so warm, because werewolves are always warm, and Stiles presses up against him because it’s cold out.

They get inside the house, and Stiles isn’t really tracking because he doesn’t care, because he’s cold, because he just wants Derek and pack and to never get near that motherfucking tree again, and then he’s on the couch and Derek is around him and there’s a glass in his hand and he brings it up to his lips, sips, and it’s like fucking ambrosia because the only things in his throat are dryness and bile and blood, and he swallows and swallows and swallows until all he can taste is nothing.

Once the glass is empty, someone takes it away from him, and Derek’s arms are around him, his face buried against Stiles’s neck, and he growling, and Isaac is curled up against his feet and Scott is pressed up against his side and Stiles lets himself breathe.

Finally, Scott asks, “Can you tell me what happened?”

_You shouldn’t have those marks on you._

“It—” The word gums up Stiles’s throat, and he swallows, tries again. “It’s angry with me.”

Derek growls again, louder. Over him, Scott asks, “Why?”

_You’re a tree; you don’t get to be possessive._

Stiles shakes his head, grabbing one wrist with the other. It feels wrong. “I think I’m pissing it off. It wants me to take that territory, and every time I do, it gets angrier at me, because it can’t make me take it. I hate that tree.”

Scott rubs his face against Stiles’s shoulder. “We could just burn it down.”

That makes Stiles want to smile, except not, because no, not they can’t. “It’s the jar, not the firefly.”

Isaac twitches against his legs, then curls one hand around his ankle. Scott says, “Okay, we won’t burn it down. Why do you look so much worse than usual?”

“Didn’t want to play chess. Wanted to play Go. Go’s harder. More moves. My neck still bruised?”

Derek’s arms tighten as Scott jerks away a little to ask, “You want to know about a _hickey_?”

“Scott.”

Scott sighs. “Yeah, it’s still bruised.”

_I guess I’ll let you keep your wolf._

Good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be fluff. Actually, next two chapters should be. Yay pack.
> 
> If you want to read what is in my opinion one of the best examples of fluffy Hale pack feels (and are willing to read 275k words), take a look at I.N.K. by billtheradish. It's awesome.
> 
> Also, as always, if you want to read original fiction by me, you can check out my serial screenplay at 510a.wordpress.com.


	13. Chapter 13

Eventually, Stiles untangles himself from Derek Scott and Isaac and Lydia, who ended up on his lap, to get up, stretching his legs because ow, sitting still for long periods of time hurts. It’s late afternoon now, almost evening, and he has to pee like nobody’s business.

Isaac and Scott are gone from the couch by the time he gets out, but Lydia is still there, curled up with her head on Derek’s thigh, from all appearances fast asleep. Though that doesn’t actually mean that she is; she has a tendency to feign sleep well enough to convince werewolves to get people to stay where she wants them.

Derek looks helplessly up at him, hand awkwardly patting Lydia’s head; he looks relaxed, though a bit baffled. It’s an adorable look on him. “She wouldn’t let me leave.” His voice is soft.

Stiles heads over to him, leaning over Lydia to give Derek a quick kiss. “She does that. She likes you.”

Derek’s eyes go wider, and Stiles realizes his pupils are blown wide. Holy shit, he was getting endorphins from the cuddling. He was getting endorphins Stiles couldn’t give him alone. That’s fantastic. “Why?”

Lydia rolls over to stare at him, eyes blinking open, and yep, she wasn’t sleeping. “Because you’re fluffy and adorable and make Stiles happy.” She reaches up with one hand to pat Derek’s chest, and Derek looks down at the hand like he thinks it’s going to catch fire. “If you hurt him, I might only set fire to your spleen.”

Derek looks back up, blinking, at Stiles. “What?”

“I think she’s saying that she’ll set fire to only your spleen, as opposed to all of you, rather than saying she’ll only set fire, as opposed to, say, dipping it in acid.” He shrugs. “I gave up arguing with Lydia years ago. And she doesn’t mean it.”

She looks at him. “I mean it.”

“She probably doesn’t mean it.”

“I mean it.”

Derek looks a little bit tense now, so Stiles snaps, “Lydia, stop talking about setting him on fire.”

She rolls to look at Derek’s face, then says, “Right. Acid it is.”

Derek snorts, his shoulders dropping back down. Stiles sits down on the other side of him, leaning against his side and wrapping a strand of Lydia’s hair around his hand. Derek puts his free arm around Stiles’s shoulders.

“How are you doing?”

Stiles turns to bury his face against Derek’s shoulder, groaning. “I hate everything. _Everything_. Other than you guys. But everything else.”

Derek kisses the side of his head. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Now I want to do presents, because presents will make me smile, and also I can’t fall asleep during presents.”

“How did you…get presents here? I know they’re not in our bags.”

“I shipped them here. They should be here.”

Lydia’s eyes pop open, and glee fills her eyes. “Oh, right, what did you get him? I assume you’ve given it to him already.”

He leans down to poke her in the forehead. “Nope. Still none of your business.”

“Come on.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “It was a blowjob.”

She snorts. “Right. A blowjob in a box.”

“Yep. It’s like a dick in a box, but with more tongue.”

She sticks out her tongue at him, and he sticks his tongue out back at her, because they’re mature human beings.

A few seconds later, Isaac sticks his head in the room, saying, “I heard presents. Are we doing presents, or can Allison and I go have sex with Scott now?”

Stiles considers popping up off the couch, decides that’s too much goddamn effort, and instead says, “Presents. No fucking. Well, fucking later. Or not. Whatever. I don’t want to know your fucking schedule.”

“We don’t schedule sex.”

“I can guarantee you Allison schedules sex.”

Allison steps out next to him, leaning against him. Because they’re doing cuddling things today. Yay cuddling things. “I won’t give you your present if you keep this up.”

Stiles looks at her. “Who are you talking to, Isaac or me?”

“All of you.”

Lydia’s lips curl up into a weirdly upside-down smile. “I’m getting presents.”

“Yes, you are.” Allison kisses Isaac’s neck; he bares it to her because she’s technically kind of higher ranked than him, and he has the best submissive instincts in the pack. Ironic, given…Stiles. Less ironic, given his dad. “Okay, presents. Isaac, can you grab the tree? And Scott? Not simultaneously. You might drop the tree.”

Isaac laughs, then says, “I’m sure it won’t do much to Scott if I dropped him.”

“Yeah, but I just got the blood out, and I don’t want to work on it again. And can someone text Kira? I’ll get Liam and Mason.”

Stiles nods. “I got her. Also, where’s Malia?”

Allison looks around like she’s expecting Malia to pop out from the corner, then shrugs. “Probably running. Someone text her, too.”

Lydia sighs. “I’ll do it.” She levers herself upright, Derek’s hand hovering in the air for a second before settling on his leg. Stiles’s heart aches a little.

\--

Kira is the last one to show up, a shopping bag full of brightly wrapped presents in one hand as she leans forward and wraps the other arm around Stiles’s shoulder. He hugs her back, and she feels like pack.

Finally, she pulls back, keeping her arm wrapped around him. “You look like hell.”

Stiles laughs. “I feel like hell. The tree’s unhappy with me.”

“I’ll electrocute it for you if you want.”

“Thanks, but no. Deaton already said we’re not allowed to set it on fire.”

“Damn.”

Stiles nudges her in the shoulder. “Before we go in, how are you doing?”

She rolls her eyes. “What, did they say I was avoiding them? I had to work, and then my parents wanted me to call. Yes, ending the relationship sucked, but I’m an adult. I’m capable of getting over stuff. I’m fine.”

“Well, then, you’re already ahead of Scott in maturity.”

Kira laughs. “Yeah, well, I could have told you that. You going to keep interrogating me in here, or can we go in?”

“Fine, I won’t check up on your wellbeing. See if I do that again.”

She reaches up to pat him on the head. “Yes, yes, thank you. I’m not a fragile weepy heartbroken flower, but I appreciate your concern.”

“As well you should.” They start towards the living room, Kira’s hand rubbing up and down his shoulder. “I miss you. You haven’t been around much.”

“Neither have you. And besides.” She shrugs her other shoulder. “I had been avoiding them. But I’m not anymore.” She shoves her hand into his hair, messing it up. “So, what did you get your boyfriend for his birthday?”

“Why do people keep asking me that?”

“Because we’re pack.” She grins at him. “We share.”

“I’ll tell you what I told Lydia: a blowjob in a box.”

“A box? Ooh, fancy.”

Stiles laughs, and yeah, Kira is okay now.

Most of the presents have been stuffed under the tree—which is leaning against one wall because they don’t have a tree stand because Liam broke it a couple years earlier—by the time they get into the living room, with Liam shoving his off to the side so there’s room for Kira to put hers down. It’s fairly easy to tell whose is whose; Lydia knows how to wrap things but tends to stick with pastels, Allison sticks hers in gift bags so they don’t need to be wrapped, Liam wraps like he’s trying to win the support of the tape lobby, Malia sticks all of her presents in cardboard shipping boxes and tapes them back up, Isaac’s are neat but all one type of wrapping paper, Scott’s are messy in the same wrapping paper, and Stiles’s are wrapped in the NCU school newspaper.

Derek is starting to look overwhelmed from his position standing next to the couch, so Stiles heads over to him even as he announces, “Benevolent overlord, I have brought your last supplicant.”

Scott laughs, walking over to give Kira a hug. She hugs him back, eyes closing as he buries his face in her neck. Because especially if the pack bond has been strained by their breakup, they both need the touch and the scent.

Stiles slips his hand into Derek’s, and Derek smiles at him. “You’re happy to be back with your pack.”

It’s not a question, but Stiles nods anyway. “Yeah. The tree isn’t any worse here than at NCU, not anymore, so…yeah. They’re—until I met you, they were basically the only thing in my life, them and my dad, and my dad is pack-affiliated, and I love them.”

Malia looks over at him from where she’s sprawled on the floor. “We love you too. Stop being so sappy.”

Stiles drops his head against Derek’s shoulder, which kind of hurts, because ow, shoulder bone. “Gee, thanks. I express my love for the pack, and you call me sappy.” Derek is watching Malia like he thinks she’s going to disappear, so Stiles nudges him in the side. “What’s up?”

Derek glances at him, then looks back at Malia, saying, “She looks like Peter.”

That’s…a little bit true, actually. Something about her face. But people have said Stiles looks like Allison—someone said that, at least, and they might have been drunk, but still, person—so Stiles just shrugs. “Huh. You hear that, Malia? Maybe Peter Hale is your dad.”

Malia snorts. “Is he a were-coyote?” Derek shakes his head. “Then no, I don’t think he’s my dad.”

Finally, Scott and Kira break apart, and they both look good. Which is good. Stiles was getting sick of awkward holidays.

“Okay.” Scott claps his hands. “Present time.”

Stiles squeezes Derek’s hand, then moves away to grab his present to Scott. Technically there is a whole complicated way that they should be giving out presents based on the rank of who’s giving it and who’s getting it but there are too damn many of them to do that, and also they’re lazy, so it’s basically just that he gives his to Scott first because he’s Scott’s second because stuff, and then it’s a free-for-all.

By the time he finds it buried under a pile of Allison’s bags, everyone is sprawled around the couches and chairs and the floor. Scott is on the couch with Allison next to him and Isaac is on the floor in front of him, so Stiles leans around Isaac to hand Scott the package.

Scott takes it, sliding his hand out from Isaac’s hair to start unwrapping it; Stiles heads over to drop down across Derek’s lap, slinging his arm around Derek’s shoulders. It takes Scott a few seconds to unwrap it, and then he bursts out laughing, dropping the newspaper down on the floor next to Isaac. “Really?”

Stiles shrugs. “It’s tradition.”

Isaac twists around to look at what’s in Scott’s hand. “‘The Wolf’s Mate’?”

“With a y.”

Isaac looks at him. “‘The Wolf’s Matey’?”

“‘The Wolf’s Mayte’. With a y. It’s the character’s name. Or something.” Derek is looking at him like he’s crazy, so he explains, “Every year I give Scott a human-written werewolf romance novel. It’s tradition.”

Scott laughs. “I have like a dozen of them. At least everyone’s dressed on the cover of this one. Kind of.” He puts it down on Isaac’s head, and Isaac rolls his eyes and snatches it off. “Okay. Present distribution time.”

\--

Isaac always gives people scarves because scarves are how he expresses his love (Isaac has issues; it’s fine, they deal) so it’s kind of a surprise when the boxes for Lydia, Scott, and Allison aren’t scarf-shaped. Because they all know what Isaac’s scarf boxes look like, and Scott’s is way bigger, and Lydia’s and Allison’s are bread shaped. White bread, not baguette.

Lydia is the first one to open hers, and her face lights up as she pulls out one patterned (floral?) heel. She looks at Isaac, who’s watching her with a small smile on his face. “This is fantastic. And not that I’m complaining, but it’s not a scarf.”

Isaac’s lips twitch, like he’s trying to hold back a grin, and then he says, “Technically, it’s kind of a scarf. We’re working with them to turn our scarf patterns into shoes, so…that’s one of our new patterns, and one of the first pairs of shoes.”

Scott looks at him, beaming. “That’s great. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Isaac shrugs, shrinking in on himself a little bit. Not hiding, not yet, but clearly a little bit uncomfortable. “It’s not that big a deal. I just—we didn’t get the first output until a couple weeks ago, and…” He shrugs. “It’s not like I’m doing anything more.”

He’s looking increasingly uncomfortable, so Stiles puts in, “Hey, how come I didn’t get shoes?”

Isaac smirks at him, shoulders relaxing. “I can get you a pair if you want. What would you be, a woman’s ten?”

To his surprise, Derek says, “I’m thinking ten and a half.”

Stiles nudges his chest. “You saying I have big feet?”

“I don’t know if I would say ‘big’.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, shoving at Derek’s (ridiculous) pecs. One pec. Whatever. “Oh, shush.”

Allison pulls open her own box of shoes, then bends herself almost in half to give Isaac a kiss. A long kiss. A really long kiss with lots of tongue (and why is that much tongue visible? Shouldn’t it be in their mouths?), broken up only when Liam throws his scarf at them and shouts, “No fucking during holiday rule.”

Allison pulls away slowly, dragging her hand across Isaac’s jaw before turning to look at Liam. “If you think that’s fucking, you might want an anatomy lesson.”

Liam rolls his eyes at her. “If he had been any more inside of you, it would have been fucking.” He makes a face. “Nobody needs to see Mom and Dad getting it on.

Malia blinks at him. “If they’re Mom and Dad, what’s Scott?”

Liam looks at her like she’s crazy. “The Alpha.”

Kira shakes her head. “See, I think your assessment is wrong. Scott’s the dad and Stiles is the mom—”

“How heteronormative of you.”

Kira rolls her eyes at Stiles. “Okay, you’re the den dad who just dens from afar, and you two are just in the world’s most functional open relationship.”

Scott and Stiles exchange looks, and then Stiles grins at him. “You know, I think Scott is den dad. Have you seen him trying to get the kids to sleep?”

“Most of the time you’re the kid.”

“Whatever. See, me, I’m the cool dad. I’m the dad that gives you sugar and sends you back to the dad you live with and encourages you to pick fights with bullies. And Derek is my arm candy boyfriend.”

Derek shakes his head as Allison asks, “When have you ever encouraged us to pick fights with bullies?”

“Did you forget about the time we told your grandfather to go fuck himself?” Derek goes rigid underneath him, and shit. Stiles laces their hands together, saying, “That was a thing that happened. We were young. It ended up fine, and he left us alone, and it was all good.”

It takes a second, and then Derek relaxes, burying his face in Stiles’s neck.

Liam looks at him. “Wait, so if Scott is Dad and Stiles is Dad, who’s flying the plane?”

Stiles laughs. “We’re all flying the plane. It’s a joint plane.”

“I think technically it’s my plane,” Scott says.

“I like to think of it more as our plane.” Stiles waves his hands (and Derek’s, because Derek is still attached to him). “You know, like a friendly plane. A cooperative plane.”

“It is a cooperative plane. I’m just the one flying the plane.” Stiles looks around. “Has everyone finished opening presents?”

Allison pokes him. “You haven’t.”

“Yes I have.”

Isaac twists to look at him. “No, you haven’t.”

Scott blinks at him, then at the box next to him. “Oh. Whoops.” He pulls at the wrapping paper on the box from Isaac, then opens the box to pull out…a sweater. A knit sweater. The fuck? “It’s a sweater.”

Isaac nods. “Yeah.”

Scott strokes a hand down it. “It’s really soft.”

“It’s alpaca. There’s a place in Los Angeles that sells alpaca wool in like two hundred colors.”

“You _made_ this?”

Isaac shrugs, the uncomfortable look back on his face. He’s bad at accepting people being happy with him, sometimes. People he cares about, at least. Public praise, he’s fantastic at accepting. “I spent a shit ton of time on planes, on my flights back and forth to Japan and to France. And I thought you might like it.”

Scott stares at the sweater for another long minute, mouth open slightly, as Isaac shrinks down lower against the couch. And then Scott lunges over and hauls Isaac into his lap, kissing him like the world is ending around them. It takes Isaac a second, and then his shoulders drop and he kisses Scott back, looking like he doesn’t even care that he’s twisted into a pretzel on Scott’s lap.

Finally, Scott pulls away, stripping off his shirt as Isaac resituates himself to sprawl across Scott’s and Allison’s lap. He pulls the new sweater on, then rubs his sleeve across his face. “This is so soft.”

Isaac rolls over to rub his face against Scott’s stomach. “This was my other motivation.”

There’s a beat, and then Liam calls out, “Dad, other Dad is cheating on you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff! And there will be more fluff in the next chapter. Two full chapters of basically just fluff is kind of a miracle. (And then he'll go back to school and there will be sad.)
> 
> Also, I finally got my 8-kyu certificate like a month and a half after passing my 8-kyu test, so that was fun.


	14. Chapter 14

Stiles wakes up with his face smashed against Derek’s chest and Lydia hand around his hip. He’s pretty sure Malia is chewing on his ankle, unless that’s Liam. That might be Liam. He’s breathing hard, his pulse thundering in his ears, but he can’t remember what he was dreaming about, so it probably wasn’t the tree.

From somewhere, Scott mumbles, “Please don’t be dying.”

Stiles tries to roll over so he can talk into something other than Derek’s chest, but that’s not happening, so he says, “Not dying. Unless Derek’s pecs suffocate me.”

“’kay.” And then Scott, from all indications, goes back to sleep.

It feels like Stiles’s heart is in his throat and his body seems to be not really sure whether to release adrenaline or endorphins, so he tries to get up to start making waffles, but as he starts to move Lydia’s teeth close around the back of his neck, hard enough to hurt. Because you end up with weird habits when you’re in a pack.

Stiles eases back down because he doesn’t really want her to draw blood, and Derek wakes up just enough to flop his hand on top of Stiles’s ribs. So yeah, he’s not getting up. Okay. He can do that.

Somewhere between trying to breathe and trying not to be suffocated by Derek’s chest, Stiles falls back asleep.

He wakes up when someone—Malia, definitely Malia—bites down, hard, on his ankle, and he jerks away into way more empty space than he was expecting, swearing under his breath because ow, teeth. Malia sits up, blinking and rubbing her jaw.

“Ow.”

Stiles glares at her, rubbing his ankle. “Ow? You were the one that bit me.” He looks around the room, which is otherwise empty. “Where is everyone?”

She tilts her head to the side, listening. “Kitchen, mostly. Your boyfriend’s gone, and so is Kira.”

Stiles heaves himself off of the bed, hopping around because wow, his ankle hurts. He’s shirtless and in only boxers, but whatever. They’re pack. They’ve been naked in front of each other. A lot.

After peeing and brushing his teeth because his mouth tastes like death fucked a skunk, Stiles flops into the kitchen and immediately finds the nearest warm body to slump against, which happens to be Liam, who sputters but moves his arm to hold Stiles up.

“Where’s my boyfriend? And also coffee.”

Allison sticks a mug of coffee in his hand, and he drains half of it. And yep, that was made by Isaac. “He’s out running.”

“He doesn’t run. And also, who let Isaac get near the coffee machine?”

Isaac glances back from his pan of like three dozen pieces of bacon. “I can make coffee.”

“Isacc, my fluffy cheekboned friend, you can make a lot of things, but coffee is not one of them.”

“Well then give it back.”

Stiles cradles the mug of coffee in his arms, because caffeine, even if it tastes like someone ran mud through a coffee grinder and then spit in it. It was made in a coffee machine. Stiles doesn’t understand it. “My coffee.”

Liam tries to steal it because he’s a dick, and Stiles elbows him in the face then drains the rest of it. Yum, caffeinated sludge. Liam shoves back, but gently, because Stiles is a small breakable human and also they get weird when he gets bruises.

Stiles shoves him back, then says, “No, seriously, where is Derek?”

Scott looks up from where he’s ogling Isaac’s ass and munching on a piece of bacon to blink at Stiles. “Seriously, he’s running, or at least he said he’s running.”

Huh. Go figure. “’Kay. Can I have some bacon?”

Scott grabs a piece directly out of the pan, because he’s a fucking a moron, ignoring Isaac’s going after him with the tongs; he hands over to Stiles but doesn’t hand it over yet. Instead, he peers at the bite mark on Stiles’s chest. “Why isn’t it healing?”

Stiles glances at it, but he can’t really see it from his angle. “It’s from the tree. God knows why anything happens.” He shrugs. “You just going to keep standing there, or are you going to give me—mmph.” Scott stuffs the piece of bacon in Stiles’s mouth, and Stiles closes his mouth out of self-preservation.

He’s still chewing when Scott reaches out and traces the bite mark; it feels hot when Scott touches it, like there’s a fever burning through it, and he gasps.

Scott smooths his hand over the bite mark, pressing his palm against it, and Stiles can feel his heartbeat pounding there. Scott’s eyes flare red. “You should not be marked like this.”

Stiles reaches out and pats his cheek. “I’m human, Scott. It’s bound to happen.”

Scott bares his teeth, and Liam jerks away slightly. “Humanity sucks.”

“My spleen would agree with you, but I’m good.” Stiles leans forward to press his nose to Scott’s throat, scent-marking him. He’s not surprised it bothers Scott that someone (thing) else marked Stiles; he’s always been possessive of pack.

Scott growls, low and not particularly threatening, and from behind him Allison asks, “Are we doing the hugging thing now? I can do the hugging thing.”

Stiles reaches his hand out to awkwardly flap at her. “Come join our woe-is-me-I’m-human hug.”

She tangles her fingers with his, then wraps her arms around both of them, and after a second Scott relaxes slightly. Which, yay Allison.

Finally, Scott pulls away, sighing. “Okay. Happy thoughts.

A bit timidly, Isaac says, “Bacon’s done.”

Scott grins. “That’s a happy thought.” He bounds off back towards Isaac with Allison rolling her eyes and following after, and Lydia steps up next to him, pinching his side.

Stiles turns to scowl at her. “Ow. Really?”

She shrugs. “If I give you enough other bruises, Scott’ll forget about the bite mark. Anything left over from yesterday?”

Stiles shakes his head. “I slept, which is more than I can say about usual. I can feel it, but that’s not new.”

“Any more nosebleeds?”

“Not yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it happens.”

She nods. “Tell someone if it happens.”

“I’m fine.” She pinches him again. “Ow.”

“Tell someone. You do what we can’t, but you don’t have to do it alone.”

Stiles ducks his head, a little uncomfortable. Because he’s not special for doing it. He’s just the only one fucked enough to have been chosen. “It’s not like that.”

Her fingers grip his chin, turning it to look at her, and wow, she must do finger exercises. “Stiles. You put yourself at risk for us. Let us help you.”

They stare at each other for a second, and then Scott shouts, “We have bacon and bread things. Come eat.”

Stiles blinks at Lydia. “Bread things?” he mouths.

She shrugs. “I’d like to eat while there’s food left. Let’s go.”

\--

Half an hour after Derek gets back from running—because he was actually running, what the fuck—he and Stiles head back to the hotel, because Stiles wants some time to make out with his boyfriend without worrying about people listening in. Because in his heart of hearts, he’s really not an exhibitionist.

Derek takes his time once they get back, slipping off and setting aside his shoes, heading to the bathroom to wash his hands, while Stiles fidgets on the edge of his bed, rubbing his palm against the bite mark.

Finally, Derek comes out of the bathroom, wiping his hands against his pants. He smiles at Stiles. “Hey.”

Stiles grins back. “Hey.”

Derek stops like fifteen feet away, which is annoying, because Stiles wants to touch. “You want me to try to take you down?”

Stiles looks at him; he looks tired. “You sure?”

“Am I sure I want to take you apart until you’re begging me to do whatever I want to do you? Yes.”

Stiles swallows, his throat suddenly dry. “Okay. Yeah. Green.”

Derek heads over to his backpack, and Stiles watches him pull out the box; his heartrate picks up, enough that Derek glances over at him, smiling. “Take everything off and drop it off the side of the bed. Then lay down and close your eyes and don’t open them.”

Stiles scrambles to strip and get his clothes off, watching Derek do…something in his backpack. Which is unhelpful. But Derek told him to close his eyes, so he lays down, closes his eyes, and listens.

Which would be a lot easier if he were a werewolf, because as it stands he can mostly only hear the faint fabric-on-fabric sounds of Derek’s backpack and his own harsh breathing. He’s always had the disadvantage of not being able to hear heartbeats, of not being able to smell chemo-signals, but sometimes it still drives him nuts. Because he wants to be able to smell Derek’s arousal.

“Why are you freaking out?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Not. I’m just wishing I could smell you get turned on like you can smell me.”

“It’s not just about smelling.” Derek is next to him, suddenly, so close Stiles jerks. His thumb touches Stiles’s lips, sliding in, and Stiles sucks on it. “It’s about tasting. It’s about the salt of your skin, about the taste of your arousal like heat and sugar against my tongue.”

Stiles moans around Derek’s thumb, then chases it with his tongue as Derek pulls it out. “I’m good with tasting more.”

“I have something better for you.” Derek traces Stiles’s lips with his thumb, then says, “Open wider. This is big.”

“That’s what he said.”

“I will leave you here and go get myself off over there.” Stiles opens his mouth obientiently(ish), and Derek fits the ball into his mouth. “I’m not going to lock it today because I want to do that for the first time at home, and then keep you like that for hours, down, as you beg around it. And maybe I won’t give it to you. Maybe I’ll just watch you beg.” He taps Stiles’s shoulder. “Turn over.”

It takes Stiles a second, and then he rolls onto his stomach, wriggling back over to where Derek is kneeling. It’s a little weird having his face squished against the pillow with a gag in his mouth, but it’s not too uncomfortable, so he just burrows deeper into the pillows as Derek fastens the gag behind the back of his head then slides his hand down Stiles’s back.

Stiles shudders as Derek’s fingers dance across the small of his back, and Derek laughs. “You’re so sensitive.”

Stiles shakes his head and tries to say, “Just you,” which turns into being mostly just drool and mush against the pillow.

Derek laughs again, then shifts, one jeans-clad leg sliding across Stiles’s back so he can straddle Stiles, jeans rubbing up against Stiles’s skin. His fingers slide up Stiles’s back, stopping at his shoulders; they’re warm, and a noise comes from Stiles’s throat because it feels _good_.

“Relax.” Stiles stiffens because that’s what he does when people tell him to relax, and Derek sighs. “Not what I told you to do.” He digs his thumbs into Stiles’s shoulders, and after a second, the tension drains out of his body. “Better. See, sometimes you can be a good boy.”

A full-body shudder runs through Stiles’s body, and it has almost nothing to do with Derek’s fingers trailing up with his spine. “I wanna be a good boy.” He’s…not tired, exactly, but calm, or warm, or starting to float, because this is the safest he can be because he’s with someone who loves him who can protect him and who wants to, and he can let go.

Derek leans down to press a kiss to Stiles’s shoulder. “I can’t understand what you’re saying.” Stiles tries to say it again, but Derek’s teeth close around the meat of his shoulder, and he trails off under Derek’s saying, “Stop talking. You’re not allowed to talk until I tell you to beg. Nod if you understand.”

Stiles nods into the pillow.

Derek moves, which no, but then he’s back on Stiles’s legs, and there’s oil on his back, and hands, pressing, sliding, fingers slipping between his legs, sliding against his balls, and Derek tells him to beg and he begs.

Derek gets himself off sliding between Stiles’s legs then collapses on top of him, breathing against his neck, still basically dressed, and Stiles comes up enough to wriggle around so he’s facing Derek. He can’t kiss him because of the gag, so he just pushes his face against Derek’s throat and mumbles, “You’re really warm,” around the ball.

Derek makes a noise, wrapping his arms around Stiles. “You’re so good, you always make yourself so vulnerable to me, and you don’t even think about it, you don’t hesitate, you just open yourself up. Do you want some water?”

He wants water, maybe, but he always wants to keep the gag in, he thinks, because it feels good, but his jaw is starting to hurt, and he doesn’t want to—

“Okay.” Derek breathes against the side of his head, warm and slow. “It’s okay. Shh. I’m going to get you some water because you’re going to get dehydrated. I’ll take the gag off when I get back. Nod if it’s a green.”

Stiles nods.

Derek sits up, and cold air rushes in, making him shiver. Derek pull back the top sheet because it’s covered in cum, then pulls out the entire next sheet and wraps it around Stiles, who considers moving but can’t make himself. It’s not warm like Derek, but it’s okay.

Derek presses a kiss to his forehead, then heads out of the room, and Stiles curls up and shoves his face against the pillow and closes his eyes.

Derek comes back being loud enough for Stiles to hear, which is good because Stiles has a habit of kind of freaking out when down-but-not-down-enough-anymore and someone sneaks up on him. Because there are things in the dark that want to hurt him, or wanted to, and he knows a knife can slip between his ribs before he knows the person is there.

“You’re safe.” Derek’s hand touches his shoulder, his thumb sliding back and forth on it. “I have water for you. Can you sit up?”

It takes him a second, but he manages to get himself mostly upright, propped up against the pillows, and Derek reaches around his head to undo the gag and pull it out of his mouth. Stiles stretches his mouth, then reaches a hand out to grab the glass of water. Derek hands it to him, holding on to it as Stiles drinks.

He takes a few sips before pulling it away from his face. “That was awesome.”

Derek touches his cheek. “You okay? You seemed fine during, but a little stressed after.”

Stiles nods. “Endorphin crashes suck. All good.” He holds his arms out, and Derek takes the cup out of his hand (whoops) and wraps him in a hug. Stiles drops his forehead down against Derek’s shoulder. “Whoo sex. Also I’m covered in oil. I should shower. We should shower. I should give you a blow job when we’re in the shower.”

Derek laughs. “I think I’ll give your jaw a break.” He runs his hand up and down Stiles’s back, and Stiles droops against him. “You sure you’re good?”

“I can feel the tree, kind of, in the back of my neck.” Derek’s hand slides up there, and Stiles pushes back against it. “Thank you. I’m good. Endorphin crashing, and I want to cuddle, but I’m good. Are you okay? You looked tired earlier. And you went _running_.”

“I run.”

“Do you really?”

Derek laughs. “Yes, I run. How do you not know this?”

Stiles shakes his head. “You’ve never gone running while I was around. Anyway, so, are you okay?”

“I’m good. Being back in Beacon Hills is hard and I—I couldn’t go into the Preserve.”

Because that’s where the remains of his house is. Right. Fuck. “I can go there with you if you want.”

Derek starts shaking his head even before Stiles finishes talking. “I don’t want to go there. It’s not worth hurting myself for that.”

Holy shit. That’s kind of a huge step for Derek, because he’s willing to admit that it would hurt him, and he’s not going to do it. And he’s made so much progress, and he’s trying, and goddamn Stiles loves him so much.

He squeezes him harder, until Derek makes a weird noise and pats him awkwardly on the back. “I’m good, I promise.”

“Yeah, you are.”

\--

Stiles spends the next couple of days mostly laying around and doing the shit that needs to be done before the semester starts, like making sure the library has the textbooks for his new class on reserve (and what a clusterfuck that is, always, oh god, the library is run by people who don’t know how to use computers) and answering questions from his 101 students about things like do I have to show up to the first class (yes) and do I need to buy the textbook (there are no textbooks, it’s all articles on the course reserves, read your goddamn syllabus). They stop by his dad’s once, but there’s some set of robberies he’s trying to investigate because they keep getting more violent, so his dad’s at the station basically 24/7. Which Stiles gets.

They head over to Scott’s place at around five on New Year’s Eve, where Scott hands Stiles a beer and says, “We’re getting drunk. Derek, you want some alcohol? We have stuff laced with wolfsbane. You want some?”

Derek shrugs one shoulder. “Sure. Thanks.”

“Cool.” Scott heads into the apartment, grabbing a glass and handing it off to Derek. “We are not doing any standing on ceremony today, or worrying about rank, or doing anything other than getting drunk and eating like forty-five pizzas.”

From somewhere, Isaac says, “I can cook, you know.”

Without missing a beat, Scott shouts back, “We’re getting pizza and that’s final.” He looks at Stiles. “He keeps saying he should cook.”

Of course he is. “Isaac, if you try to cook, I’m going to sit on you.” Derek grabs his free hand, and he adds, “And then Derek’s going to sit on me, and it’s going to break something, and you’re going to be sad.”

Scott laughs. “Drink your beer.”

Stiles takes a sip, then asks, “Who’s coming?”

“Everyone.”

Stiles rolls his eyes at him. “Who counts as everyone? Are any adults coming?”

“We are adults.”

“Any _actual_ adults?”

Scott shakes his head. “Only pack affiliated are Derek and Mason.”

“So we have an even number. Awesome.” Stiles looks at Derek. “You know the thing with New Year’s Eve where you kiss someone at midnight?”

Derek shrugs. “I guess.”

“Right, you have no friends.”

Scott hits his shoulder. “Hey, that’s mean.”

Derek shrugs again. “But accurate.” He looks at Stiles. “Making out with people?”

“Yes. Right. So mostly to avoid awkward stuff because we are a pack of awkward stuff and complicated relationships, we have a rule where you have to kiss someone but they can’t be in a relationship with you. I mean, I guess you don’t technically have to kiss someone, because that would be creepy and wrong and you can’t make people kiss other people because that’s assault-y, but usually everyone kisses someone, and having even numbers makes it so much easier. You ever seen three people try to make out simultaneously? It’s not pretty.”

Scott grins. “Last time it was him, Liam, and Kira, and they basically just licked each other’s tongues for a while.”

Stiles snorts. “Oh, right, like that was so much worse than you with Lydia and Malia the year before.”

Scott rolls his eyes. “Okay, yeah, whatever. We’re now going to watch Disney movies in the living room. Come claim a spot or you’ll be stuck on the floor.”

They end up getting through _Mulan_ before Liam decides he’s hungry, and they order fifteen pizzas because werewolves are ridiculous, and then they sit around drinking more and eating pizza and watching _Big Hero 6_ and then _Brave_ because Allison loves _Brave_.

It’s nice, being there together, people who love each other, who care about each other, and the shit about Scott and Kira and Allison and Isaac is over, and they’re all just happy. And slightly drunk, though not drunk enough to mix up the stuff with wolfsbane with the stuff without it, because that would kill humans, and would be bad.

Killing humans generally is.

Derek’s hand is in his hair, running through it, and Stiles plays with Lydia’s hair, because Lydia’s hair is awesome, and everything is awesome, and maybe Stiles is more than slightly drunk, so he grabs another piece of pizza, because that’s how you get less drunk. You eat food. Food makes you not drunk. Stiles is good at food. Or drunkness. Foodness?

At some point, Liam announces, “It’s almost midnight,” and they all scramble to be vaguely upright so they can figure out who to kiss. It’s always a little hard because people are near the person they’re dating, usually, with Allison and Isaac and Scott playing really-friendly-octopi on one of the one-and-a-half chairs, but they switch over to white-guy-with-salt-and-pepper-hair counting down to the new year on a three hour delay.

Once he gets to zero, Lydia grabs Stiles’s face and kisses him, and he kisses her back, and there’s no tongue because Stiles kisses like a respectable person who’s dating someone else. And it’s awesome, because Lydia is a goddess of a human being, and she tastes like champagne because she drinks like a mature person.

She pulls away after a second, and they both look around to see Mason (looking a bit dazed) pull away from Isaac, Malia (looking smug) and Kira detangle, Liam (looking awkward) pull away from Allison, and Derek and Scott…still making out. And holy shit, it’s like watching porn, because they’re both tall and tan and Derek has stubble, and is this what kissing Derek looks like, and then Lydia whistles and Scott pulls away, blinking.

“Holy shit.”

Derek turns to smirk at Stiles, and Stiles grabs him and kisses him, dragging his teeth across Derek’s lower lip, sucking on it. He lets it go on for a minute, then leans back, saying, “You’re only allowed to kiss me like that.”

Derek shrugs. “You said I was supposed to make out with the person.”

“I said kiss, not tongue-fuck.” He glances over to see Allison reasserting her own claim on Scott, then turns back and kisses Derek again. Just because he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, we're done with the fluff. Next chapter we go back to school, and then there's SADNESS. Because school is sadness.


	15. Chapter 15

“So.” Stiles claps his hands together, jumping up from his spot sitting on the desk. Evan jerks slightly, and right, loud sharp noises are a bad idea with werewolves on campus right now. Because guns. “Welcome to Humans and the Pack. Usual spiel, if this isn’t your class, get out.” Nobody moves. “Awesome. This is the first time this class is going to be taught, so there is a small chance the syllabus will change. I’ll tell you a couple weeks in advance if that’s going to happen. Any questions about that?”

Nobody says anything. Cole flips through his syllabus, then looks up at him.

“Okay, cool. My name is Stiles Stilinski, and no, my first name isn’t actually Stiles, and no, I’m not going to tell you what it is. So…general stuff about the class. It’s a discussion class, which means that every week you’re going to do the readings and then talk about it. This also means that you will have to talk in every class. Participation is worth thirty percent of your grade, so that matters. Forty percent will be for your final paper. The last thirty percent will be split between two papers that you will write for any two weeks about the topic on hand. The main topic of this class is how humans relate with the pack structure and the politics of humans within packs.

“For any of you who have taken a class from me before, you know my policy on slurs. It’s going to be a little harsher this semester; first offense is five points off of your final grade and a write-up with the administration for hate speech. Every subsequent offense will be another five points and another write-up. In light of what has been going on on campus, I can’t tolerate any level of hate speech. The only exception to this will be the day when we discuss prejudices, during which time you will be allowed to use slurs in a purely academic sense. If you use it against someone during that class, it’ll still count as a slur. That’ll also be the only day you’re allowed to skip, because I know the topic can be triggering for people, and I’m not going to make anyone sit through that. Other than that, all classes are mandatory short of illness, serious injuries, or family emergencies. If you get shot, you don’t need to show up to class.”

Evan flinches. “That’s not funny.”

“My alpha once came to class in high school with an arrowhead stuck in his thigh. I wasn’t trying to be funny. In the interest of full disclosure and so you believe that I know what I’m talking about, I have been the second in command in a pack for the past decade or so and am an accredited druid-trained ashbreaker. My email address and phone number are both on the syllabus; if you need to get in touch with me about a question or if you need ashbreaking, you can contact me on either of them. Any questions?”

One of the students he doesn’t recognize raises her hand. “You’re human, then, if you’re an ashbreaker?”

Stiles nods. “I am, though one does not necessitate the other. We’ll talk about that on our week about non-human non-werewolf supernaturals, which will be on April…something. One of the last classes. But yes, I am human.” More or less. “It’s the other reason I know what I’m talking about; I am, along with hundreds of other people, emblematic of what we’re talking about.”

Nobody else raises their hand, so Stiles sighs, tapping on the desk behind him. “Okay, so here’s the deal: I know, I think totally accurately, which ones of you are werewolves. Not because anything says it anywhere, but because I know some of you, and I can tell because it’s my job. But I have no intention of outing you, and not just because it’s illegal, although, also, it’s illegal. But you are all welcome to talk—or not—about your species or pack status. Other than that, because there are twelve of you and not a hundred like in my 101 class, you’re going to go around and say where you’re from, what you’re studying, what year you are, and why you’re taking this class.”

Evan’s first in the circle, and he spends a second tapping on his desk before saying, “Uh, Evan Cho, and yeah, I’m a werewolf, Errin Pack in SoCal. I’m the head of the Werewolf Student Association, so it would be kind of silly for me to pretend not to be a werewolf. I’m a Werewolf Studies major, I’m a junior, and I’m taking this class because I really need to know more about this stuff.”

The girl next to Evan looks at him, then says, “I’m Lina Cater. I’m pack-affiliated to the Meyers Pack in East Washington, but there’s a chance of me becoming pack soon, so I want to learn everything I can about it beforehand. I’m an Anthropology major with a minor in Portuguese, and I’m a senior.”

Cole is next, and he glances at Stiles before saying, “I’m Cole from the Monroe-Sanchez pack in the Bay Area. I—this is an elective for me, but considering everything that’s going on, I thought—I thought I should learn more about this. I’m a freshman, so I’m still kind of trying to figure out what I’m doing.” He looks down at his desk. “Other than not get shot.”

Evan looks sharply over at him. “Still not funny, Cole.”

Cole’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t look up. “Not trying to be funny. You can’t pretend it’s not happening.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why aren’t we running a perimeter—”

“Because I’m not an alpha, and I’m not sending people out to—”

“Okay.” Stiles claps his hands, because he can’t let this spin out of control in the middle of his class. “We can do this later. Like, not now.”

\--

Stiles stops Evan before he can leave the classroom. “Do you have a minute?”

Evan glances at Cole, who’s hovering in the doorway, then says, “Yeah, I have time. My next class doesn’t start for a couple of hours.”

“Okay.” Stiles looks at Cole. “This isn’t private; you can join, too.”

Cole flushes. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. Is anyone out there?” Cole shakes his head. “Great. There’s probably not a class in here now, then. Can you close the door?”

Cole closes it, heading over to them. Stiles leans on the edge of the front desk. Evan looks at him. “What did you want to talk about?”

Stiles sighs. “First, how are the two of you?”

Cole looks over at Evan, who scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’m good. I’m mostly good. Going home helped, but a couple rooms were ashed when we got back, and Lizzie isn’t coming back this semester.”

That’s…not good, though Stiles isn’t surprised. He’s also not going to comment on it, because there’s nothing useful he can say.

He gestures towards Cole, who says, “My alpha didn’t really want me to come back, not after they, uh, they took a shot at me.” Cole swallows. “I talked her into it, but she’s not happy about it. But if we stop coming, then they win, right? If the who point is to stop us from coming to school if we drop out, we’re giving them what they want. And they shot at your alpha, they shot Laura Hale. We can’t let them win.”

Stiles remembers being that kid, and she wants to shake Cole, to tell him that it’s better to lose but live then to die winning. But he wouldn’t have listened, and he knows Cole won’t, either. So instead he says, “Want to tell me what earlier was about?”

Cole grimaces. “Sorry about that.”

Jesus. Children. Stiles is so glad to not be actually in charge of these kids. Adults. Whatever they are. “No, actually. If something’s going on on campus, I need to know about it, because I’m the one most likely to need to ashbreak if something goes down. And because I care about you guys, because you’re my students and I want to make sure you’re okay.”

Cole’s head drops down, and he runs his fingers through his hair; he stops halfway, like he doesn’t have the energy to finish what he’s doing. “We have a…disagreement about whether or not we should be running perimeters. Just because I got shot at—”

“Running the perimeter.”

“Well _someone_ had to do it.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Tell me you weren’t running it alone.”

Cole looks up to scowl at him. “Really, you too?”

“Damn it, Cole.” Stiles’s phone buzzes, and he pulls it out of his pocket and shoves it off to the side of the desk; he needs it away. Because Jesus fuck, Cole, that was such a bad fucking idea. “You can’t do that.”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Not run it alone.” His phone buzzes again, and he ignores it even as the sound grates on his nerves like a nail to the back of his neck, pressing up under the back of his skull. “What were you—” Stiles bites off the last word, forcing himself to take a breath, to calm down. His heart is pounding in his throat now, because Cole could have died, he could have died, and he’s like Liam and like Scott and like Stiles, and he doesn’t want this kid to die in a street somewhere because he wants to do some good and doesn’t understand how to do it.

“Okay.” Stiles lets out a breath. Yelling at the kid isn’t going to do any good, and Stiles isn’t his alpha. It’s not his place. “I’m not going to lecture you on why that was a bad idea, because if you don’t know, I’m not going to be able to convince you. What is important is that you—both of you—understand the right way to protect the campus if you want to. The first thing you need to understand is that you always need to go in pairs, if not larger groups.”

“You said it won’t stop them.”

“It won’t deter them. Probably. But that’s not the only reason to work together. You’re _werewolves_ , Cole. You live in packs. Your entire existence is based around working with other people. And you might not be in packs with each other, but you _know how to work together_.” And maybe he’s getting a bit loud, but goddamn it, they’re werewolves. This should be second nature.

Evan opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Right.”

Yeah. Right.

His phone buzzes again, and Evan asks, “Aren’t you going to check that?”

“Are we done with this conversation?”

Cole glances at Evan, then says, “Yeah, I think we’re good.”

Stiles nods. “Okay. Keep me up to date.” They both head out of the room, and Stiles reaches over to grab his phone, checking it. Three missed calls from Lydia, no messages. Fantastic. He dials her cell phone number, then sticks his phone up to his ear.

One ring in, she picks up. “Took you long enough.”

“I was trying to talk one of my students out of running perimeters alone. What’s up?”

“They’re ashing other classrooms now. Half the math building was ashed.”

Oh, fuck. Stiles sits down on the ground in front of the desk, leaning his back against it; he can see the door and all of the windows. “You need help breaking it?”

“No, I got it. But you might want to start checking the buildings, because this isn’t the last of it. They marked it with the HFU symbol.”

“The—I haven’t seen that since Allison got in that fight in high school. The way they brand their kids.”

“I don’t know if they count as kids at that point.”

Stiles’s jaw clenches. “Sixteen’s a kid, no matter who you’re allied with. But what the hell are they doing marking it up with that? That’s an internal thing.”

“Apparently not anymore. You think it’s Argent calling for the change?”

“Or some kids who don’t know the rules. To have as many people on campus as they seem to to be doing what they do, there must be new recruits that they haven’t had time to train yet.”

She tsks. “So what, we have a bunch of half-trained trigger-happy human firsters who thinks the HFU runs around shooting up college campuses?”

“Apparently that is what the HFU does now.”

“Yeah.” Lydia groans. “Okay, a student’s here for my office hours. It’s week one, what the hell do they need to talk to me about? I have to go.”

“You ever wish they would let us keep guns on campus?”

“You hate guns and so do I. Now a nice Molotov cocktail, that I’d go for. Talk to you later.”

\--

“The territory’s not happy.”

Stiles presses his forehead against the table, holding up the phone with one hand and letting the other hang next to him. “Fireflies?”

“Nah, just a weird feeling on the back of my neck. The tree is _not happy_. How are things on your end?”

“You willing to give me permission to stop sleeping?”

Scott snorts. “You know better than that.”

Stiles picks his head up. “Yeah. These kids are going to get themselves killed, and I don’t know what to do about it. I can’t look after them all the time.”

“It’s not your job to.”

“What am I supposed to do, let them run around half-cocked until they get themselves killed? One of them was patrolling alone before break.”

“Like you’ve never patrolled alone.”

“I was _sixteen_ and you were hurt. He has people. He should know better. And we were facing a rogue. There’s no human equivalent to wolfsbane and mountain ash.”

“He has claws.”

“They have _guns_.” Stiles bites off his frustration. “I don’t want to keep arguing about this. Please.”

“Okay.” Scott sighs. “I’m serious, Stiles, about the sleeping. I know it feels like a good alternative, but it’s really not.”

Stiles knows he’s right, but, “Neither is waking up thinking I’m in Eichen House again.”

Scott makes a noise like he just got the wind knocked out of him. “Why—”

“It’s how I got the bruises on my wrists.” He doesn’t look at his wrists. “When I still had them.” He drops his head back down on the table. “I just can’t see the other side of this, Scott. I don’t see how it ends.”

“Which part?”

“The tree. The HFU. All of it. I don’t know. There’s no light, and the tunnel’s getting dark.”

“We’ll get through this.” It’s not quite his alpha voice, but it’s _Scott_ , Scott in that ridiculous way he has of saying something with no logic behind it and making it sound completely plausible. It’s why they love him, why they’d follow him anywhere he asked, just because he asked, because he’s _Scott_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sadness is coming.


	16. Chapter 16

“First things first: what makes a human part of pack?”

Sarah (human, Werewolf Studies major) puts her hand up, then says, “It’s just when they’re associated with it, right? I mean, they can’t connect to the pack metaphysically, that capability just doesn’t exist in the human brain.”

That’s…wrong, but half the room has their hand up, so Stiles points to Lina (human, pack affiliated) instead of correcting her. “Humans do have that capability, though it’s just not as strong as for werewolves. Which mostly means that humans can live further from their alpha for longer without facing as bad of a blowback. No, for a human to be part of a pack, they need to agree and then so does the alpha.”

“Reciprocal acceptance,” Evan puts in.

Stiles nods. “Right. This is actually one key difference to keep in mind between human and werewolf members of packs: a human always has a choice as to pack membership, while a werewolf bitten in will join the pack structure by default. So what can we say about humans in packs?”

Allen (werewolf) says, “I mean, just thinking rank-wise, shouldn’t the node structure prioritize werewolf members? Not that humans matter less, but they don’t need the feedback and don’t really provide any, so rank-wise it seems like they should be at the bottom.”

“But didn’t Professor Stilinski say that he’s the second in command in a pack? He couldn’t be the bottom ranked and a second in command.”

Evan sticks his hand up. “But this is equating node rank with pack rank, and they’re not really the same thing. The conceptualization of node ranking is usually of it just being two-tiered, alpha versus pack. Unless you’re using the Tsuji model, but that puts node rank in terms of seniority rather than pack rank. Which, I guess, is kind of the same in Japan.”

“Shouldn’t people know what node structure is, though?” Sarah asks. “I mean, if werewolves—and humans—directly connect to it, if it’s real, shouldn’t it be talked about as a thing, not a concept?”

Cole rolls his eyes. “Gender is real, right? People feel gender. Most people feel gender. But we also talk about gender as a concept, because it’s not a thing that you can, like, hold in your hand and look at. The node structure’s in our head, and we can feel it, but that doesn’t mean we can show other people how it works or even agree on how it works.”

“Doesn’t the Fisher-Riley model put the ranking as being three-tiered?” Lina puts in. “Alpha with diverging interactions with werewolf and human members of the pack. That would assume there’s a fundamentally different way that the node structure interacts with werewolves and with humans.”

“Fisher-Riley also assumes that the only humans in packs are ones who are having sex with werewolf members, so there’s that.”

Lina shrugs. “That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s wrong about the node structure.”

“But it does mean he’s coming at it from the wrong direction, which has a sort of implicit assumption he’s going to end up in the wrong place.”

“Maybe it’s like math, where you can do the whole thing wrong and still get the right answer.”

Evan clears his throat. “Anyway, going back to an earlier thing, there’s no specific reason for humans to be lower ranked than werewolves in a pack. Especially when you’re talking about regular pack rank, it’s determined by…well, a bunch of things, like utility to the pack and relation to the alpha and seniority and born versus bitten, so humans can be basically anything other than the alpha.”

“What about emissaries? Where would they fall in the ranking?”

Stiles says, “We’ll discuss that in three weeks, so I want to wait until you’ve all done the reading on it before talking about it.”

Allen asks, “How about your pack, Professor Stilinski? How does the node structure work for you?”

Oh, boy. “I can answer that, but first you need to understand that my pack is structurally out of the norm for two reasons. First, we have a disproportionate number of non-werewolves in our pack; out of the eight members of my pack, only three are werewolves. Second, my pack does not and never has had a born werewolf, which may or may not impact the structure; there hasn’t been enough research done on that.”

Lina narrows her eyes. “How does that work? I mean, I thought packs all have to have had a born wolf at some point, because they had to bite the first bitten wolf in the pack. Or whatever. I mean, packs can’t materialize out of thin air.”

“You’re mostly right. Anyone know the exceptions to that?”

Evan puts his hand up, and Stiles nods to him. “A bunch of packless wolves can get together and make a pack, and they could have all been bitten. It’s actually more likely, because bitten wolves are statistically more likely to go packless. Or, I guess, born wolves are stastically really unlikely to end up packless.”

“And the other one?”

It takes a second, and then, slowly, Cole says, “If you have a pack of two—or two werewolves and however many humans—and the alpha dies, the werewolf would end up packless and technically the old pack is gone. If they get a new pack, then, the chain starts with them.”

Stiles nods. “Very good.” Cole grins at him. “The second was the case for us. The original pack consisted of my current alpha and the one who bit him. Following the death of that alpha, he was temporarily packless because I as a human couldn’t provide the metaphysical feedback to complete the pack. But to answer your question about my pack node structure, we see it as two-tiered with the alpha connected equidistantly to all pack members. Our pack rank is totally unrelated to our node structure.”

“What is it related to?”

Stiles looks over at Sarah, who’s human and so doesn’t get why that’s a kind of awkward question. It’s a normal thing to talk about in a general sense, but specific reasoning for pack rank is personal. Because Allison and Isaac are none of this random person’s business, and neither is Kira or any of the rest of them.

Evan looks uncomfortable now too, and so do Cole and the rest of the werewolves in the room, because this is _private_ , so Stiles just takes a breath and says, “The same as every other pack, just like Evan described—utility to the pack, relationship with the alpha and the other members of the pack, as well as other things. One of the most important things to remember is that ranking is real but—as with the node structure—conceptual, instinctual, and generally unspoken.”

“Wait, so how do you know where in the rank you are?”

Evan puts his hand up, so Stiles points to him. “We can feel it. My pack is a lot bigger—we have twenty-seven with…twelve affiliated? Thirteen? A bunch of affiliated. So we tend not to differentiate as much in the middle ranking. Beyond the alphas and the second and third in command, we generally just think of it as high, middle, or low. But if you told us to line up in order of rank—if our alpha told us to line up in order of rank, we could do it. It might take a little bit of time, but so would tell us to all line up in order of height. And mostly rank just means who defers to whom. If either of my alphas give me an order, I’ll listen to it. If my second in command gives me an order or tells me to do something, or my third in command, I’ll do it. But if my little cousin, who’s below me in rank, tells me to do something, I have no obligation to listen to them. I might do it because they’re family and I love them, but nobody will expect me to.”

Stiles nods. “Anyone want to tell me the one issue that’s run into with having a human as the second in command?”

Joseph (werewolf), who’s been fucking around on his phone for the entirety of the class, picks his head up to say, “You can’t inherit the alphahood.”

“Right. The second in command position is traditionally held by the heir—or, alternatively, the heir position is traditionally held by the second in command. In cases with human second in commands, another heir is chosen, though in some packs the heir isn’t explicitly chosen.”

Lina frowns at that. “So what happens when the alpha dies?”

Cole is the one who answers that. “It goes to someone in the pack, and I guess you hope they’re ready for it.”

\--

Lydia looks radiant as always when she sits down across from him at the corner table in the campus coffee shop; they’re both turned to face the wall, Stiles’s bag sitting in the corner. She takes a sip of her coffee, leaving a perfect red lipstick mark on it. “My students are fucking morons.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “And this is different from every other year, how?”

“It’s not. I just keep hoping, fruitlessly, that one day I’ll get students who know what an axiom is on the first week of school, seeing as Mathematic Theory is a prerequisite for this class.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I have no idea what an axiom is.”

Now she’s the one rolling her eyes. “I’m so reassured that you’re just as ignorant as my grad students.”

“Oh, these are your grad students you’re complaining about? Usually it’s your undergrads.”

“My undergrads are idiots, too. One of them asked me if they needed to be able to do calculus, the first class. It’s a differential equations class. What do they think?”

Stiles shakes his head, taking a drink of his caramel macchiato. “I gave up after multivar for a reason. I never got that shit once we got to vectors.”

“You never wanted to try. Too busy with your mythology.”

“Yeah, well, why try to be second best at that when I could be actually best at this. Anyway.” He presses his lips together. “The HFU symbol.”

Lydia nods. “There was one in paint and one in ash.”

“Any way to track it?”

“Doubt it. Looked like standard spray paint, crude but stuff you can buy at any hardware store, wherever. Red; not really uncommon. Same with the ash. It wasn’t druid-keyed, just normal shit; these are definitely low level people.”

He glances around the room, but nobody’s listening; they’re too far away, and the room is too loud. “So what are we going to do? It’s not like we can walk into Kate Argent’s jail cell and threaten to do…anything if she doesn’t leave us alone.”

Lydia nods, examining her nails. It’s not that she’s not paying attention or that she doesn’t care; it’s her way to not make eye contact. And he can’t blame her. “I’m up for shooting the bitch.”

“Lydia.”

She looks up at him now, and she looks fucking furious. “She raped your boyfriend and burned his family to death, and she’s trying to kill the people that matter to us. They shot at _Scott_ and hit _Allison_. I will burn those motherfuckers to the ground. Trap them in druid-keyed ash and see if they can get out. And don’t you dare pretend you don’t want the same exact thing.”

He can’t, because goddamn if that doesn’t sound appealing, so he just takes a drink of his drink. She nods, satisfied.

\--

“Can I, uh…” Cole hovers half in the doorway of Stiles’s office, fiddling with the strap of his backpack. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Stiles nods, turning off his computer screen and shifting to face Cole. “Yeah, sure. What do you need?”

Cole hesitates, then heads into the room, closing the door behind him. He drops down into the chair across from Stiles. “I—I fucked up, didn’t I?”

“About what?”

“Patrolling alone. I fucked up. I should have gone with someone, or waited for someone, or just…not gone by myself.”

Relief floods through him, so potent he actually sags in his chair a little. “Yeah. That was—you fucked up. Just to be blunt, you did.”

Cole lets out a shaky breath, dropping his head into his hands. “Okay. Yeah. I just, I wanted to show that I could do something, I wanted to show that I could be helpful, and just—can you imagine what that feels like? Do you know what that feels like?”

Stiles forces himself not to laugh at him, because this isn’t the time. “I’m a human in a werewolf pack. I know what that feels like.”

Cole glances up at him. “Right. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Stiles sighs. “I can talk you through safer ways to patrol, patterns to hold, ways to split up responsibilities so you all get enough sleep and you don’t burn yourself out.”

“I—” Cole looks away, then looks back over at him. “You hate this. You’ve said you hate this, or I think you said that, or you’ve made it clear at the very least that you hate being involved in all of this sh-stuff with the HFU and the violence. And you talk about it like you got out of this horrible thing and put it behind you. So why are you helping us?”

Anger flares, with horror and panic on the tail end of that. He waits for all of those feeling to settle before answering, “I’m assuming you’re not actually questioning why I’m not letting a bunch of eighteen- to twenty-five-year-olds get themselves killed by a hate group.” Cole winces. “Yeah. I do hate this. That’s why I want it over with. And I want you and the territory safe.”

“Like it’s your territory.”

Now Stiles is the one who winces, because that is not a thought he wants to hear, especially not coming out of Cole’s mouth. “Like it’s people who I want to see graduate college. Alive.”

“Right.” Cole nods. “Can you show that to us, what you were talking about before? All those patterns and stuff? I would really like to graduate alive.”

“Yeah, of course.” Stiles glances at the clock on the wall. “I have to head out now, but if you talk to Evan, we can figure out a time in the next few days. Before then, my suggestion would be to have someone check the doorways of the rooms with werewolves every couple of hours, even at night, so you can deal with it as soon as possible. Rotate through who checks, and there’s almost always someone up. Because college.”

“I’ll mention that to Evan. Thanks.” Cole rubs his forehead with the heel of his palm. “I’m scared.”

“Good. Scared is what keeps you alive.” Until afterwards, when it tears you apart. “And then you _talk to someone_. A psychologist. A therapist. Once this is done, I’m serious, find someone to talk to.”

“Do you talk to someone?”

“I did, and I also have the…advantage of a pack that’s gone through primarily the same experiences as me and who have also gone to therapy, and so I have a support structure that understands. I’ve also had ten years, in some cases, to deal with the trauma.” He turns on his computer screen so he can shut down the computer. “And I’m not always the best role model for dealing with trauma.” He gets up, and Cole stands up too, pulling his backpack back up on his shoulder. “Are you heading back to your dorm?”

Cole shakes his head. “No, I have class downstairs soon. I’m just going to sit in the lobby for a while.”

“Okay. See you in class.”

Cole splits off to head down the south stairs, while Stiles heads towards the north one, because they’re the closest to the shortcut to the parking lot. Derek submitted his first draft earlier than expected—whoo Derek, though he _still won’t show it to Stiles, goddamn it_ —so they’re going to celebrate by eating slightly more upscale Chinese food and then having sex for a while. Or at least that’s what Stiles is going for.

He gets outside, pulling his scarf tighter around him because goddamn wind in January, and takes three steps before feeling the unmistakable press of the barrel of a gun against the back of his neck. Habit kicks in, and he drops to the right, hard, spinning so he doesn’t have his back to the gun. If they haven’t shot him yet, he has the second to figure out what the fuck is going on.

It’s the fucking humans firster from his 101 class from last semester, with a handgun pointed at Stiles’s head. A Glock 33. .357 SIG. How the fuck does this kid have a Glock? _Why_ the fuck does this kid have a Glock? And how the hell is he going to get it away from him?

“Hands up, glow-whore.”

Stiles puts his hands up, saying, “You don’t want to do this.”

The kid—Jesus, what’s his name—laughs. “Oh, I really do.” And then he pulls the trigger.


	17. Chapter 17

stiles stands in front of him, pale and gray, bandages trailing down from his hands. He smiles. “You going to take it now?”

There’s pounding in his throat, like his heart has wrapped its way around his windpipe, and if it’s going to end like this, he doesn’t want it to be while hallucinating the goddamn tree. He can’t see the bullet, but he knows it’s coming, knows it’s just behind stiles.

“This is it. This is your last chance. You take this territory, and I can save you.”

Stiles blinks at him, because what the _fuck_ is going on. “You’re—I can’t.”

“Sure you can.”

Something breaks in him, because why won’t the stupid fucking tree leave him alone, he’s about to _die_ , and he snaps, “Don’t you get it? I can’t. I can’t take this territory. I can’t take territory. I’m just a human, just a weak fucking nothing human who ended up surrounded by werewolves, and maybe I’ve connected to you, and maybe I’ve done more than I should have been able to but I _can’t take this territory_.”

stiles holds out his hand, bandages half-unwrapped, and Stiles notices hysterically that the edges are dirty, like they’ve been dragged along the ground even though they only reach his knees. “Do you think I don’t know what you are? Do you think I haven’t been inside you? I know exactly what you are, Stiles Stilinski, and the fact that you are human is irrelevant because I am not.”

“Is the bullet going to put a hole in your head when it goes through you?”

“If you take this territory, nothing will happen on it that I don’t want.”

“I can’t take this territory.”

“Hold out your hand.”

He sticks his hand out, because he’s already hallucinating a him-shaped tree, so why the fuck not. He’s going to die anyway. “I still can’t take the territory.”

“Do you want the territory?”

“No.”

stiles takes a step closer. “Do you want the territory?”

“No _._ ”

Another step. “Do you want to live?”

“ _Yes_.”

Air floods into his lungs as something burning hot drops into his outstretched hand, and stiles is gone, and he can feel it, it’s everywhere, all of them, they’re everywhere, he can feel them inside of him, and the person is sprawled on the ground in front of him, gun inches from his hand, unconscious. He looks down at his hand, and in it is a bullet, still formed like it was just shot.

It takes him a second of numb not knowing what the fuck is going on, and then, with remarkably steady hands, pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials public safety. They pick up on the first ring, and before they can say anything, he says, “There’s a student unconscious next to the Meyer building. He has a gun.” And then he hangs up. His voice sounds hollow, or maybe that’s just the rushing in his ears, like he’s holding a shell up to them. It feels like he’s outside of himself, not like he can see himself but like his body doesn’t belong to him, like it’s not real and neither is anything else.

So it takes him a moment to realize his phone is vibrating in his pocket, and another moment to actually pull it out of his pocket and put it up to his ear. Evan is talking. “There’s something wrong with the territory. There’s something—I think someone took the campus, but I don’t know how, I don’t know why, because this is supposed to be neutral territory, this was neutral territory, and we’re not going to be able to stay here if someone’s holding the territory.”

“I—” Stiles’s throat is dry. “You can stay like it’s neutral territory. So can everyone else.”

There’s a second, and then Evan gasps. “It’s okay now. Why is it okay now?”

“I have to go.”

“Professor Stilinski—”

“I have to go.” He hangs up, then calls Derek’s number. It rings and rings and he realizes he shouldn’t be found with the unconscious body that he called in and he doesn’t know how long it’s been since he called it in, so he starts walking towards his car, hand still curled around the bullet. Derek’s voice starts speaking, and he listens for a second before realizing it’s the voicemail message. He hangs up and dials again, and he’s next to his car, and the phone is ringing and he can feel them in his chest like pressure on his sternum and heat on his lungs.

The ringing stops, and then Derek is speaking, and it’s Derek and not the recording and he doesn’t know what he’s saying but he doesn’t care because it’s _Derek_ , and he can feel him, and he shouldn’t be able to feel him, not like this, not like how he can feel pack but something else, something that shouldn’t be possible, because the ground is humming under his feet, and he wants to take off his shoes and press them to the asphalt beneath him.

“Stiles. _Stiles_.”

Stiles blinks, and he’s back in his body a little, just enough to realize the phone is up to his ear and Derek is there. “I fucked up.”

Derek lets out a long breath. “Stiles, I need to know if you’re okay.”

“If I’m okay?”

“Stiles.”

“Why do you keep saying my name?” He feels like he’s missing something, and he can’t think, he can’t _think_ , and nothing feels right, his body doesn’t feel right, and last time it felt like this there was a demon in his head.

There’s a pause. “Where are you right now?”

Stiles looks around. “Next to my car. In the parking lot.”

“Can you drive?”

He doesn’t know where his body is. “I don’t think so.”

Derek lets out another breath. “Okay. I’m going to get you. Have you called Scott?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me why the territory feels wrong?”

“Stiles—”

“It’s your territory as much as it’s mine.” Derek makes a noise. “He shot at me. I had no choice.”

“You need to call Scott.”

“I had no choice.” He needs Derek to know that. He needs Derek to understand that. He had no choice. He didn’t want the territory. He doesn’t want it.

“I know you didn’t. It’s okay. I’m going to get you, but I need you to call your alpha and make sure he knows you’re okay. Can you do that for me?”

Stiles nods, then remembers Derek can’t see him and says, “Yeah.”

“Good boy.” There’s a new sound now around Derek, like vibrating. “I’ll be there soon.”

“I didn’t want it.”

“I know that, Stiles. I love you.”

Stiles hangs up and calls Scott, who picks up and says, “Hey, what’s up?”

Stiles opens his mouth to say something, and what comes out is, “There’s a demon in my head and I think I’m drowning.”

Scott drops down to alpha voice. “I need to know what’s going on.”

The voice hits him like a ton of bricks, and his knees buckle and he finds himself on the ground with his back against his tire. A noise comes out of his throat. “I can feel everyone, all of them, and it’s my territory now, and I don’t want it to be my territory, and the tree might be in my head and I don’t know if I’m me anymore.”

“Are you somewhere safe?”

“The tree won’t let me die.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It wouldn’t let him shoot me.” Scott makes a noise and Stiles can feel his body again just enough to feel burning in his hand and the pounding in his throat and the panic. “I can’t—can I not talk about this now?”

“I need to—”

“Please.”

“Is someone with you?”

“Derek’s coming.”

“Okay.” Scott says something else, muffled, then says, “I’m going to stay on the line with you until he gets here.”

Stiles just closes his eyes and presses the bullet against his palm because it’s the only thing he can feel and tries not to feel all of the werewolves that are now inside of him.

A hand touches his shoulder, and his eyes open to see Derek crouching down in front of him, an unhappy look on your face. Stiles blinks a couple times, but he doesn’t go away, so he’s definitely not a hallucination. And Stiles can feel him, too, somewhere in the vicinity of his sternum, and that’s wrong, that’s all wrong.

“Stiles.” Derek’s hand moves to his cheek, the cheek not next to the phone, and Stiles realizes that Scott had been talking only once he falls silent. “Stiles, I need to know that you’re okay.”

Scott says, “Ask him his symptoms. I asked twice, but I’m afraid of pushing him.”

Derek looks around, then sits down with his legs crossed in front of him. “Stiles, symptoms?”

“Dis—uh, disassociation.” He swallows. His hand is numb from holding the phone up to his ear. He’s not sure if he can make himself move it. “I don’t—everything’s wrong in my head. It wasn’t supposed to be in my head again. I can’t go back there. I can’t go back there, Scott. But I need it out of my head.”

Derek looks hurt, and then he says, “Scott, you know more about what’s going on than I do.”

Scott makes a shushing noise. “Nobody’s going to make you go back there.” He sighs, a rush of noise through this phone. “I think the Nemeton somehow forced him into taking the territory you’re in. We can figure out exactly what happened later; it doesn’t matter right now. The best thing right now is probably to get Stiles somewhere safe and warm and keep him hydrated. I’d say let him sleep, but I really want to have an actual verbal check-in with him.”

“He said someone shot at him.”

“I know.” Scott makes a growling noise through the phone, and Stiles thinks he should care that they’re talking about him with him right there, but he doesn’t. Everything’s all wrong, and it’s back in his head, and he hates feeling like he’s disconnected from his skin but this way he can feel the tree a little bit less. “Damn it, I need to be down there.”

“This isn’t neutral territory anymore, and if whatever is going on goes wrong, do you really want to get in a territorial fight with your second in command?”

“Fuck,” Scott spits out, and Stiles jerks at the anger. “No.”

“Should I ask Lydia to come over?”

“I’ll call her. Just—just get him okay.”

“I will.” Derek reaches towards the phone in Stiles’s hand. “I’m going to end the call now. That okay?”

Stiles nods, letting Derek pull the phone out of his hand and then pull his hand down to his lap. It prickles with static-pain. Derek touches his other hand, opening it, and Stiles realizes it had been clutching at the bullet. Derek hisses in a breath. “Jesus, Stiles.”

“I don’t want the territory.”

“I know.” He reaches out to touch Stiles’s shoulder, slowly, and Stiles has the distant thought that he’s treating him like a wounded animal. Not like a mental patient, he never understood why they said that, because that’s not how they treat mental patients, it’s not, he knows. “I’m going to take you home now.”

Stiles nods, and Derek moves so he can help Stiles up, and then he’s standing, sort of, leaning his weight against Derek because he can’t really figure out how he stand up on his own. “My car.”

“We’ll get it later.” He touches the hand with the bullet, slides his fingers in, and they brush the burn and there’s pain and something—

breaks

And he can’t breathe, can’t breathe, his heart pounding in his chest, and he yanks his hand away to stuff it in his mouth, bullet and all, a sharp bite of pain as the bullet presses into his burn. He took the territory. What has he done? What has he done?

“ _Stiles_.”

Stiles bites down hard on his fist, and it _hurts_ , and he doesn’t care because everything feels wrong and the tree didn’t let it hurt and he needs the pain. Because this is going to hurt so many people and he shouldn’t have done it, he shouldn’t have taken the territory, and what has he done.

“Breathe.” Stiles shakes his head, biting down harder, and Derek takes in a breath, then turns and shoves him against the car, pinning his other hand behind his back and wrapping a hand around his eyes. And then he snaps, “ _Breathe_.”

Stiles sucks in a breath, choking on it, and Derek reaches down with the hand over his eyes to yank his fist out of his mouth and pin it with the other hand behind Stiles’s back. Stiles sags against him. “Fuck.”

Derek wraps both arms around him from behind, keeping his hands pinned with his chest. “Damn it, Stiles.”

“Sorry.”

Derek’s arms tighten around his waist. “Damn it.”

\--

Stiles can’t stop shaking. It’s not like he’s cold, but like his body thinks it’s cold without telling his brain, and so Derek-the-space-heater isn’t doing any good and neither is the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and he just wants to stop shaking goddamn it.

The doorbell rings, and Derek jerks, then says, “It’s Lydia.”

Stiles curls up tighter against him. He doesn’t want him to get up. “Is your door locked?” Derek nods. “You mind if she picks it?”

Derek snorts softly. “Seriously?”

“It’s good practice.”

“Okay.”

Stiles reaches out towards his phone, but it’s too far away, and Derek’s arm around his waist is keeping him in place. Derek grabs it and hands it over, and Stiles sends a text to her telling her to pick the lock.

Fifteen seconds later, the door swings open and the distinctive sound of Lydia’s heels—Isaac’s heels, and they make Stiles smile every time he sees them—come into the room. She kicks them off next to the couch with her pocketbook and flops down into his lap. He curls his arms around her, and she feels like pack.

“You look awful.”

Stiles closes his eyes, squished between two of his favorite people. “I feel awful.”

She presses her lips to his throat. He’s going to have lipstick marks there. He can’t bring himself to care. “You want to talk about it?”

There’s a demon in his head and he did the one thing he said he was never going to do and he doesn’t want this responsibility. “No.”

“Okay.” She shifts a bit. “Hi, Derek.”

Derek breaths against the back of Stiles’s head, a point of heat. “Hi. Thanks for coming.”

“Stiles is pack.” It’s sharp, sharper than it should be.

Stiles nudges her. “Play nice.”

“You’re hurt. I don’t want to play nice.” She taps his cheek until he opens his eyes and looks at her, blurry in her closeness. “Tell me what you need to make this better.”

“I don’t know if I’m still me, and I want to stop shaking.”

She stares at him for a second, then moves away to grab something from her pocketbook. When she turns back, she has a marker in her hand. “I want you to look at your hand.” Stiles looks at it and, while he’s watching, she draws 己 on his palm, every stroke precise, slow enough that he can watch each line go down. Once it’s all there, something settles in him, the old ritual reminding him that things aren’t all gone. She curls his fingers in on his palm, holding in the symbol.

She looks at him. “You need the other one?” The other hand might not be his, because the demon is there, the tree is in his head, so he nods. She traces it out on his hand, careful around the bandaid, and he closes that one too, then flexes them. He feels a little better now, though he’s still shaking and he doesn’t know how to fucking _stop_. She glances behind him at Derek. “You know what he needs?”

After a second, Derek puts his lips to Stiles’s ear and whispers, “Would it help?”

It takes a second because that was so far from what he was thinking, but then he gets it. “Yeah, probably.” He looks at Lydia. “Would it bother you if Derek tied me up?”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Do you remember why the no fucking at holidays rule was implemented?”

“Because I walked in on Scott eating Kira out? Twice?”

“The second reason.”

Right. “Because you and Parrish were fucking and squished some of the presents.” Derek huffs out a breath behind him, and Stiles grins briefly.

“So don’t think that I would be bothered by something that would help you just because it’s public, or sexual.”

From behind him, Derek says, “It’s not sexual. In front or behind?”

“In front. I need something solid behind me.”

Derek shifts, moving Stiles so his back is against the couch. Then he gets up. “I’ll be back.” He heads to the bedroom.

Lydia is watching him. “You want to tell me about that burn?”

Not really. “Someone shot at me. I took the territory. The tree gave me the bullet.”

“You call your dad?”

Stiles closes his eyes briefly. “This is pack business.”

“You know Scott would never ask you not to tell him this.”

Stiles grits his teeth. “I took neutral territory—safe territory—away from a bunch of—of kids. You think I want to explain that to my dad?”

Lydia opens her mouth—probably to argue—then closes it again when Derek walks out with a short length of rope in his hand. She moves out of the way as Derek crouches down in front of him.

“I’m just going to tie your hands.”

“I’m okay with you doing more than that.”

“I’m not. Color?”

Stiles glances at Lydia, who’s watching the two of them. “Green.”

Derek does a simple loop and knot, easy to get out of, which probably makes sense. If he freaks out, better he not break some fingers in the process. The pressure is good, though, enough that he can feel it without pain, and the shaking slows.

Derek smiles at him, kissing his forehead. “I love you.”

Stiles nods. “Love you too.” Derek moves behind him again, so Stiles’s back is to his chest, and Stiles leans back against him. “Thank you.”

Lydia starts to move towards him from her spot on the other side of the couch, then stops. “Is it still okay if I touch you?”

“Yeah, of course. Please.” He lifts his arms up, and she slides under them so she’s on top of him; he encloses her in his arms. “Thank you, too.”

She slides a hand up his shirt, against his skin. His shaking is almost gone. “The people who love you will always come for you. You know that, right?”

He swallows. “Yeah.”

She pats his side. “Good.”

They stay there for a while of them, and Stiles can feel Derek’s heart beating and his chest rising and falling as he breathes, and the pressure against his wrists where the rope is, grounding him, keeping him together, and Lydia on his chest, her fingers tracing circles against his skin.

He yawns. And he knows he could fight the exhaustion dragging his eyelids down and making his body heavy, but instead he just sinks deeper against Derek, relaxing that last little bit of tension from his shoulders.

From somewhere, he hears Lydia say, “Scott’s going to need a debrief when he wakes up.”

Derek says, “Scott can wait,” and then Stiles is gone.`

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're welcome.


	18. Chapter 18

Stiles wakes up in Eichen House with his hands bound and his heart pounding in his chest so hard he can’t breathe, because it’s dark, dark, he can’t see, and he’s tangled up with arms and legs and bodies and they’re dead, they’re dead, he’s next, or maybe he’s already dead and he just hasn’t bled out yet, he just hasn’t found where the pain is, but the Nemeton’s in his head and he needs it out he needs it out he needs it out he needs

“You’re in Derek’s apartment. You’re with Lydia and Derek. You’re a professor at Northern California University.”

Stiles thrashes harder because they got Lydia, Lydia isn’t supposed to be in here, Lydia is supposed to be safe, they’re all supposed to be safe, that’s why he left, and he has to get her out, he has to get her safe, he has too—

Something forces his mouth open, and there are lips against his, and that’s wrong, that’s all wrong, and the body against his is male and he’s not out and there shouldn’t be any men who know he’s into men in Eichen house and he doesn’t know if anyone at Eichen house is gay but—

Stiles jackknifes over sideways, tumbling off of the couch (couch, where did that come from, there are no couches in Eichen house) and bashing his head against the floor as he twists away from the people near him. He gets his eyes open to see Derek and Lydia standing next to the couch; Derek’s hands are up, but Lydia’s are down.

It takes him a second, abdomen vibrating as he holds himself a couple of inches up off the ground, and then he drops back down on his back, his head bouncing a little. He buries his head in his hands. Fucking son of a bitch. “Please tell me I didn’t want to hurt either of you.”

Lydia says, “We’re both fine,” then adds, “and I need to know why you freaked out when you heard my voice.”

“Thought you were there with me.”

“Ah.” He hears her crouch down next to him; they must have moved the table and he just didn’t notice, because he should have fallen into it. “It okay if I touch you?”

“I’m tainted.” She doesn’t say anything. “You want to touch me, I can’t stop you.”

“Stiles.”

“Yeah. Please. Jesus.” She puts a hand on his chest, which is covered in cold fear-sweat. “Jesus. Derek?”

Derek makes a noise, and God, Stiles is going to need to make so much up to him. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for this. It’s not your fault.”

Stiles swallows. “Can you not be nice to me?”

“You really think I’m going to try to hurt you now?”

Lydia snorts. “Put your hands down; hands up doesn’t scream unthreatening coming from werewolves.”

Derek sighs. “Stiles, I’m not going to go after you for having a nightmare, or for taking the territory. I’m assuming this is because of what’s going on with you and not because you think I’m a shitty person who doesn’t care about you. What I want to be doing right now is hugging you until you stop smelling like fear and fucking anxiety but I don’t know if you want me to so I’m standing here trying not to break something.”

Fuck. Right. This isn’t just everything Stiles is afraid of, it’s everything Derek is afraid of, too. “Can you give me a hug?”

Derek drops down on his knees straddling Stiles, wrapping his arms around and under him, Lydia’s hand trapped between them, and she doesn’t seem to care. “Don’t you dare try to do this alone. Don’t you _dare_.”

Lydia laughs, sliding her hand up and down his chest between the two of them. “You’re not the ally I thought I’d have.”

To Stiles’s shock, Derek throws his arm out and grabs Lydia too, pulling her onto them. “We both want him happy.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Three,” Stiles mumbles around where Derek’s shirt is squished in his mouth.

Lydia snorts and doesn’t answer.

Sometime later, none of them moving, Lydia sighs. “I need to head back to my apartment. Do you want me to come back?”

Derek is silent for a second, and then Stiles says, “Can you give us a minute?”

“Yeah. I’m going to go scope out your alcohol situation.” She kisses Stiles’s cheek, then rolls away, climbing to her feet.

Stiles sits up, pulling Derek with him so Stiles is on top of Derek’s lap because Stiles is good at maneuvering people. And Derek is being slightly unnervingly pliable, but that is something he’ll deal with in a bit. Derek buries his face in Stiles’s neck. “You smell better.”

Stiles reaches up to tangle his fingers in Derek’s hair. “I try. Do you want her to come back? I know we kind of forced her on you.”

“I do.”

“You don’t need to do it for me. I know you’re used to being alone, and we’ve taken over your apartment.”

Derek pulls away, shifting Stiles so they can make eye contact, which is annoying, because Stiles wanted Derek to keep breathing on his neck. Because hello pack instincts. “What you’ve given me, what your pack has given me, is the closest thing I’ve had to a functional pack since—since the fire. And I didn’t think I wanted it, I didn’t think I could deal with it, but I miss having people coming in and out. You know how packs work, how packs are supposed to work, what that feels like, and this is the closest I’m ever going to that again.”

Oh, Jesus. Stiles can’t imagine losing what he has with his pack, and he doesn’t even have a werewolf’s instincts, and especially not a born werewolf’s instincts. “So you want her to stay?”

Derek leans forward to kiss Stiles, hard, teeth biting down on his lower lip. The he pulls back, saying, “Not forever.”

“Not into exhibitionism?”

Derek’s eyebrows go up. “You’re not.”

Heat lurches in Stiles’s groin, even though this is really not the time. “Wait, you’re into exhibitionism? Because that sounds like something we should explore.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “You’re not into exhibitionism, and I wouldn’t do anything without you. But yes, I want Lydia to come back, because she’s your pack and her being here will help you, and because I want her here. I like her.”

“Thanks.” Stiles looks over to see Lydia flounce back into the room. “Sorry, I got bored. You don’t have enough alcohol. If it’s good with you, I’ll head back to grab clothing and call Allison so we can work out the security situation, and then I’ll come back. Feel free to kick me out whenever you want to fuck. Or not. I’m more than happy to listen in.”

Derek nods. “Thanks.”

Lydia smirks at him. “You’ve got nice abs. Believe me, it’s no hassle.” She crouches down to kiss Stiles on the cheek. “Don’t do anything stupid. And Scott wants you to call.”

“You psychic now?”

“I know Scott. And he texted.” Right. Of course. “Derek, you up for me giving you a kiss?”

“I wouldn’t want to come home smelling like some girl’s perfume.”

Stiles feels like his heart might burst out of his chest, because Derek sounds teasing towards someone who isn’t him, and was this what he was like before everything happened. He sounds…not happy, exactly, but better than he usually sounds outside of sex or scenes. And sexual jokes with a girl seems like a step in the right direction. Maybe the pack really is good for him.

She laughs. “A bit late for that now.” She pecks him on the cheek, then straightens. “I’ll be back.”

Once she’s out of the apartment, Derek sighs against Stiles’s temple. “Shower?”

Stiles nods. “I smell like fear-sweat.”

“You smell like nightmares.” Derek straightens without appearing to use his hands, because he’s a goddamn show-off, taking Stiles with him so he’s in Derek’s arms. “We’re going to shower.” He starts walking.

Stiles looks around from his spot in Derek’s arms. “Where’s the rope?”

Derek touches one of Stiles’s wrists as he picks his way around furniture. “Cut it off.”

Stiles lifts one of his arms up to look at it, and yep, that’s some pretty fantastic bruising. Won’t that be fun to explain. “Maybe we should hold off on having me tied up in my sleep for the next…while.”

Derek snorts. “Yeah, no kidding. I wouldn’t do it if you asked.” His tone softens. “Where did you think you were?”

There are bodies all around him, and no matter how loud he screams, nobody comes. “I can’t—”

“You can tell me later.”

“Lydia can tell you.” He doesn’t think he can put words to it. It’s like touching the tree, or speaking its names. There are too many nightmares there.

“Stiles—”

“I’m not talking about it.” They get to the bathroom, and Derek sets him down on the floor. Stiles turns the shower on, then starts stripping, trying to pretend not to look at the bruises on his wrists. Because, shit, those look bad, like he tried to rip out of them. Those are going to burn under hot water, but also he’s shaking again, and he really wants to be warm.

Derek sighs but doesn’t say anything, instead pulling off his own shirt. He has a bit of Lydia’s lipstick smeared on his cheek, and Stiles reaches over to wipe it off. Derek looks at him. “Does that bother you?”

Stiles blinks at him, because he missed something. “Does what bother me?”

“Lydia kissing me. We didn’t set that kind of boundary because, when we met, basically the only people I interacted with were Laura, Peter, and my editor.”

Stiles chokes off his instinctive laughter, because Jesus, Derek. “They’re my pack, and you looked happy. Shy of you fucking one of them—without my permission—I really don’t care. Like, I’m human, but I’m pack.”

“I know.” Derek shoves his pants down his legs, then drags his hand across his face. “My last functional relationship was with a woman who made me keep her a secret so she could burn my house down. I don’t really know how these rules are supposed to work, so I’m just flailing around every time something comes up. And shit keeps happening, and I don’t want you thinking I want something else to be what drives you away.”

There are things he probably should say, but he’s out of words and of ways to care, so he just walks over and wraps his arms around Derek, squeezing a bit too hard. Derek hugs him back.

They don’t pull away until the bathroom is filled with steam, and then Derek herds him into the shower, Stiles hissing in pain as the water hits his wrists. “Jesus.”

Derek wraps his arms around him from behind, sliding his hands over Stiles’s stomach. “You want me to take the pain?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No. Please don’t.” He needs it to keep him tethered to reality, because he’s still not doing well, mentally. “I’m going to sit on the floor now.”

“Stiles?”

“I need a wall to my back, because if something’s coming for my back, I don’t want it going through you.”

Derek lets out a breath through his teeth as Stiles pulls away to slide down against the wall to land with his knees in front of him. The water pelts down on his face, and he closes his eyes. “Nothing’s coming for your back.”

“I _know_ that.” And he does, but that doesn’t stop the feeling like there’s a target on his back, because he spent so long with one there, and as soon as it went away, the fucking HFU showed up and painted it right back there with a red fucking paintball. “The rogue wasn’t the only thing that came after us, and we spent a long time not knowing who to trust. Sleeping with you is the first time I haven’t slept with a knife under my pillow outside of pack since I was sixteen. People went after Scott’s mom, after my dad, after Lydia, after everybody they could think of. I spent a long time with people trying to stab me in the back.”

Stiles hears Derek move, but he really doesn’t want to open his eyes and check where Derek is. Derek is safe. It’s like pack, but distilled. “Nobody’s going to do that to you now.”

Stiles shoves his hands against his face. “I _know_ that, Derek, I know, except they are, because they shot me, they shot at Scott, they shot Laura. And look, I know I fucked all of this up, I know I shouldn’t have taken the territory, but I can’t do anything about that right now.”

“Hey, no.” Derek crouches down next to him, the spray from the shower cutting off against most of Stiles, and he puts a hand on Stiles’s shoulder. “That’s not what I’m saying. It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.”

“But it is.”

Derek is silent for a second, then asks, “What do you need from me?” It manages to sound genuine in a way Stiles would never be able to make it, not that that means Stiles actually has an answer for him. Because he doesn’t know what he needs, other than to go back in time and kill Kate Argent before she ever got it in her head to burn Derek’s house down. And then kill Gerard Argent for good measure.

So Stiles just shakes his head. “I’m just going to sit here for a while.”

“Stiles—”

Stiles looks at him. “I’m not planning on drowning myself. I just want to get warm.”

“Okay.” Derek presses a kiss to his forehead, then stands. “I’m going to go make coffee and breakfast. Your class today is in the afternoon, right?”

Fuck. “Yeah. I’ll be ready before then.”

“You want to call out sick?”

Stiles shakes his head again. “It’s my territory.” The words stick in his throat like somebody poured glue down it. “I need to—” He doesn’t know what he needs to do. “I need to.”

Derek nods. “Okay.” He runs a hand through Stiles’s hair, then heads out of the shower. Stiles closes his eyes; through the sound of the shower he can hear Derek grabbing a towel, and then the door opening and closing again.

And then Stiles tilts his head up so there water is running across his face and sobs.

\--

His students are looking at him weird. The werewolf ones, at least, and thank god there aren’t any werewolves in his current Werewolves 101 class because he probably smelled like hell for it.

Evan narrows his eyes at him when he walks in, then sits down in his chair with his arms crossed, lips pressed tight. Stiles takes a long sip of his caffeine-and-sugar-and-maybe-a-little-coffee, then begins, “I’m assuming you all did the readings on pack affiliation and pack membership. We’re going to start with the Toyova piece, so to begin, what’s the distinction between being simply a friend of a pack member or the alpha and being pack affiliated?”

Lina puts her hand up, and when he nods at her, she says, “I mean, this isn’t from Toyova, but I’m pack affiliated, and basically the difference is one of intention and of being explicit. I mean, the alpha—the Meyers alpha—he asked me if I wanted to be pack affiliated because I’ve been dating his second in command for like six years, and I said yes, so now I’m pack affiliated. And it’s not like I’m a node point, but if they need me to help them, I will, and if I need help from them, they’re…more bound to help, unless it would go against the good of the pack.”

It’s interesting how she puts helping the pack before them helping her, and is what’ll probably make her a good pack member if she becomes one. Cole adds, “Affiliated are invited to pack meetings, things like that.”

Eyes fixed on Stiles, Evan puts in, “Only some pack meetings. We only invite ours to the ones that are related to them. But how about territory? Toyova talks about territory, too.”

Fantastic. “Only in regards to pack membership, which we’ll get to in a bit. Right now I want to you to focus on just affiliation.”

“I think it’s important. You know, who holds a territory.” Cole glances over at Evan, who doesn’t look away from Stiles. “Don’t you think that’s important, Professor?”

Okay, fuck it. “Would you talk to me outside for a minute, Evan? Everyone else, just talk amongst yourselves.”

Evan stays where he is for a moment, sprawled in his chair in an imitation of relaxation, and then he stands, stalking towards the door. Stiles follows him, leaving his coffee on the desk. He doesn’t want to look like he’s putting up barriers by holding it during the whole conversation. Evan stops once they’re outside, but Stiles keeps going, walking past them until they’re more or less out of earshot of the werewolves in his classroom.

Finally, he stops, and Evan stops in front of him, arms crossed across his chest. “You want to tell me what the _hell_ is going on with this territory, Professor?”

Stiles takes in a breath before responding, mostly just to make sure he doesn’t say anything stupid. “Does it feel like a territory you can live in?”

Evan’s jaw clenches. “Yes, but it doesn’t feel neutral. It feels like someone’s holding it. And given that you could make it feel livable, your alpha must have taken the territory. I just don’t get how, or why.”

“He didn’t.”

“You smell like the territory. It’s yours.”

Stiles shoves his hand through his hair. He’s done. He’s done hiding this, he’s done lying about this, and Scott never told him he couldn’t tell—and it’s all his choice, anyway, because other than hurting himself, Scott would never forbid him anything, because Stiles is his second in command. “That’s because it’s mine.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The territory is mine.”

Evan’s eyes flare gold, and he snarls, “Don’t fuck with me on this.”

“I’m not.” He swallows, then inhales, lets the territory fill him, lets himself feel it like he hadn’t before, and Evan recoils back, stumbling back a step, eyes going dark again.

“What the fuck was that?”

Stiles tamps back down on it, and it’s harder than it should be, hard like trying to bottle something up with no space for the bottle, air pushing back against the plug, and he knows it’s going to be harder next time. He says, “My alpha’s not the one holding the territory. I am.”

“That’s not—you can’t be. You’re human. You’re not an alpha.” Evan looks scared now, and he should, probably. Stiles doesn’t like being the person to be afraid of. He’s had a demon in his head. He’s been there. He never wanted to be that person again.

So he makes himself small, as small as he can, harmless, and he was always good at that. Don’t look at him, don’t care about him, he’s only human. Worry about the big bad werewolves behind him. “I can’t tell you how. It’s not that I don’t want to, but it’s my alphas orders, and I can’t circumvent them on this.”

“You’re—you’re lying.”

“Do I smell like I’m lying?”

Evan hesitates. “No. But that’s not possible.”

“I know. But believe me, I don’t want it, and I’m trying to fix it. It’ll be neutral again as soon as I can make it.”

“You don’t sound like you believe that.”

He was probably asking for that. “Look, this is complicated in a way that I couldn’t explain even if I was allowed to. But I need a little patience, and I need all of the packs in this territory to not start storming the keep. You’re all allowed to be here. Everyone’s allowed to be here. I want it to be as close to neutral as possible.”

Evan stares at him for a moment, then says, “They’re not going to stand for this for long. We’re not. We’re here because it’s neutral.”

Stiles nods. “I know.”

“But I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you.”

Evan shrugs one shoulder. “You were our ashbreaker.” He looks at Stiles’s hand, still bandaged over the burn. “Can you still pass over mountain ash?”

Stiles opens his mouth to say yes, then closes it again. Panic hits him, and Evan nods once before walking back towards the classroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that took so long. I was in North Carolina most of last week presenting on surveillance and classification in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, which is a topic I know way too much about. (So if you ever want to learn about that, you know who to ask.)
> 
> As always, check out my original fiction at https://510a.wordpress.com/.


	19. Chapter 19

“I need mountain ash.”

Lydia looks up from a pile of papers covered in scrawled red marks, then sets her pen aside and asks, “Which kind?”

Stiles shuts the door behind him, because yeah, let’s not have this conversation about semi-illicit materials in full view of the hallway. “What do you mean, which kind?”

“I have regular and keyed. What do you need?”

“Why do you have druid-keyed mountain ash? More to the point, _how_ do you have druid-keyed mountain ash?”

She rolls her eyes at him, picking up her pen just to tap it impatiently. “I keyed it myself. _What do you need_?”

“Just mountain ash. I need you to seal something. Anything. Me, you, your coffee cup.”

Her lips press tight, and then she pulls open one of her desk drawers to take out a small jar of mountain ash with a blank white label on it. She sets it down on the desk, then looks at him. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“You want to tell me why you have basically illegal mountain ash on a college campus with werewolves on it?”

“Because I don’t trust anyone that isn’t pack—or, maybe, your boyfriend. Don’t avoid the question.”

Stiles looks at the jar. “If I can’t cross lines anymore, I need to know before people start setting them.”

“You think the tree’s inside of you?”

“I know the tree’s inside of me. I’m just not sure how supernatural that makes me.”

“You know you hold the territory. You don’t know that you hold the tree.”

Stiles shoves a hand through his hair. “Just lay the ash, please.”

She watches him for a moment, then opens the jaw and pours some ash into her hand, letting it trickle through her fingers in an improbably perfect circle around her cup of coffee. She dusts the remaining ash back into the jar.

Stiles wants to reach out towards the cup, wants to just grab it, because she should be able to, he’s always been able to, but what if he can’t? What if he’s lost this, too, lost this integral part of him? He doesn’t want to know that, because it’s like Schrodinger’s cat; before he can’t pass through an ash line, he still can.

But he needs to know.

So he reaches out towards the coffee cup, and his hand is shaking, and he hits the line and stops for just a second, hitting resistance not like glass but like gelatin, and then it flares and the resistance is gone. His fingers close around the coffee cup.

“See?”

Stiles holds on for a minute, and he can feel like line across his wrist, under his wrist, and maybe he can still cross ash lines but the tree is definitely there, too. He lets go, sweeping his hand down to break the line. “Yeah. Did you see it light up?”

She looks at him. “No.”

Fantastic. “Okay.”

“You’re still human, Stiles.” She reaches over to take his chin in her fingers, the tip of one nail touching his skin. “You’re as human as I am.”

It takes him a second, and then he nods. “I think Derek likes you.”

She pinches his chin, then lets go. “I’m not going to try to fuck your boyfriend. Unless both of you want me to.”

“What?” Stiles shakes his head. “No. No, not liking you like that. I mean liking you as a person. And he doesn’t…like people. So that’s cool.”

She looks down, brushing her hand across the desk to push all of the ash into a pile. “And he picked me to like?”

“You said you trust him.”

“I’ve never met someone outside of pack who had your best interests in heart more than your boyfriend. And the bizarre thing is that you care that much about him, too.” She looks up at him. “I know you’re all into this bizarre mentorship protection of the werewolf kids here, and of everyone else in existence who you can possibly find to protect, but you would kill any of them in a heartbeat if it would save Scott’s life, or Isaac’s, or mine.”

“I—”

“This isn’t a condemnation; I would do it too, and at least you’re a good enough person that you would feel bad about it afterward. But I think if you had to choose between pack and your boyfriend, you would hesitate. Which makes him dangerous as hell, except our enemies are his enemies, and he would throw himself in front of a bullet for you if you would ever fucking let him. So yeah, I trust him, because he’d pick you.”

“You trust him because he would die for me?”

“Do you know why I follow Scott?”

Stiles blinks at her, because what? “Because he’s our alpha?”

“Because you follow him.”

“Lydia—”

“Scott cares about people, which is nice and sweet and all, but it gets people killed. Because he would try to save everyone and then we would all die. You care about pack. You’re the one who kept us alive. Don’t think I don’t know about some of that shit you did in high school. So yeah, you’re the one I follow, and Scott’s the one you follow. And don’t get me wrong—I trust him, I love him, but we’ve been over this: if I had to pick between you and Scott, it’s not a question of which one I would choose.”

That settles uncomfortably over Stiles, and he clears his throat, asking, “Why don’t you want to be in charge?”

She smirks at him, twisting her pen between her manicured nails. “I have exactly as much power as I want. Except when it comes to the law. I just need a couple of hours when I can just kill all the motherfuckers going after us, and then go back to teaching undergrads about axioms.”

Something spikes in his consciousness, and he rubs his hand across his face to hide whatever expression passes across it. He’s not going to go there. He’s not going to do that.

“What are you thinking?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing I want to say out loud.”

“Fair enough.” She twists a lock of hair into a perfect ringlet, which falls down into a perfect loose curl. “You want me to come over tonight?”

“Let me get back to you on that.”

She nods. “Okay. I—”

Stiles’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and he pulls it out to see Derek’s name up on the screen. Which is not a great sign. He holds up one finger, then swipes across to answer it. “Hello?”

“You almost died.” Derek sounds not-good, and Stiles stands up because he can’t not react to that. He wants to fix things, even though this isn’t something he can fix. “He _shot_ at you. Why the fuck are you back on campus?”

Apparently it had hit him. It can take a couple of days, actually going through this shit (something which Stiles knows from too much goddamn experience), and Derek had probably been too focused on helping Stiles get through the shit to process it.

Stiles presses a thumb to the bandage over his burn. “I’m alive. I’m okay.”

“They keep trying to kill you, and you’re _still there_.”

Lydia makes eye contact with him, and he says, “I’m heading home. I’ll see you soon.”

“You—you don’t need to come back to the apartment.”

Stiles rubs some of the mountain ash off on to the side of Lydia’s desk, saying, “Don’t think I won’t be there for you. This is how it works in a pack.” Derek is silent for a moment, and Stiles takes the time to mouth to Lydia, “Don’t come over unless I call you.”

She nods, mouthing back, “Tell me if he’s okay.”

Stiles gives her a thumbs up, then heads out of the room as Derek says, “I’m not your pack.”

Shit. Fuck. Right. It’s not like Stiles doesn’t remember that, but he isn’t used to separating things out like that when it comes to people he cares about, because you’re either pack and he loves you or you’re not and he doesn’t. And it’s not like he doesn’t care about people not in his pack, sort of, sometimes, but it’s like Lydia was saying, that for basically anyone else—anyone who wasn’t pack or pack-affiliated—he would let them die for his pack. And with Derek it’s not like that.

“You’re the person I love. You look after me, and I look after you.” Derek makes a noise like he was struck, and Stiles hurries to say, “Shh, shh, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

Derek is mostly just breathing at this point, the sound rasping, not like he’s having a panic attack but like he’s just trying to breathe. Stiles has been there, has been to the point where breathing is the only thing he can do at the moment. So Stiles just keeps up a steady stream of mostly-meaningless reassurances that they’re all okay and is really glad he’s not in the same place as him so he can’t smell that he’s lying.

He switches to his hands-free headset once he gets to the car, because he was raised by a cop and that’s what happens, and he keeps up the reassurances because Derek still seems not-okay. Which, to be fair, is true about Stiles, too, but he’s just had a lot of experience quickly adapting to whatever shitty thing is going on because you either adapt or you die. And Derek basically just had one thing, or one time, to adapt to, and it was a shitty thing and a shitty time, but then it was over. Beacon Hills kept getting worse, though, worse in different ways, and so as much as he hates it, he knows how this goes.

Derek sounds better by the time he gets to the apartment, or at least a bit less like he’s about to wheeze out a lung in panic, but Stiles doesn’t stop talking until he’s opening the door to see—

Derek, standing there, phone up to his ear, so close to the door Stiles almost hits him with it. Stiles blinks at him, then says, inanely, “I feel like I should be carrying pie.”

Derek reaches out to pull the headset from Stiles’s ear, which kind of hurts, and then he wraps his arms around Stiles and just breathes. Stiles would hug him back, but his arms are trapped at his side, so he just leans against Derek and lets him hold on.

Finally, he says, “We should probably close the door, at the very least.”

Derek makes a noise, then shuffles them into the apartment just enough to shove the door closed. Almost the second it’s closed, some measure of tension drains out of his body, and he slumps against Stiles so hard he stumbles. Derek makes an unhappy noise. “Shh, it’s okay.” Stiles worms one hand free enough to start stroking Derek’s back. “I’m okay.”

Derek responds by turning Stiles in his arms and starting to herd him towards the couch, where he says, “Lie down.” Stiles clambers on to the couch, turning over so he’s lying on his back on it, staring up at Derek. “Shirt off or I shred it.”

Fair enough. Stiles wriggles until he can take his shirt off and drop it down next to the couch. “Anything else you want off?”

Derek just climbs on top of him instead, low enough down at his head is over Stiles’s shoulder. Thank god for the long couch. “I’m going to mark you. Color?”

“Green.”

Derek’s mouth closes over Stiles’s collarbone, sucking hard, and Stiles closes his eyes, trying to keep his hips from bucking. Because this isn’t about sex. He doesn’t think. At least not until Derek says it is. And he hasn’t yet. Though goddamn, he’s getting hard, and he hasn’t wanted sex in the past few days because of all the shit going down, but he could go for some mutual orgasms right now. But Derek seems to need comfort more than anything else, so that’s what he’ll give him.

Derek opens his mouth to say against Stiles’s skin, “You smell like sex.”

Stiles threads his fingers through Derek’s hair. “Sorry.” His mouth traces down Stiles’s stomach, and Stiles clenches his fingers in the couch cushions because damn it, Derek is testing his resolve. “Not making it any easier to keep this chaste.”

Derek exhales against Stiles’s skin just above his waistband, and his cock jerks. “Wasn’t trying to.”

“What are you—” Derek’s fingers undo the button and drag down his fly, and an inarticulate noise comes from his throat. “Oh, Jesus.”

Derek pulls down his pants and boxers, keeping them around his thighs. “I want to smell me on you. I want to smell you on me. I want to taste you.” He closes a hand around the base of Stiles’s cock. “You’re mine. Nobody gets to do this but me.”

Stiles nods, fingers scrabbling as Derek leans down to drag his tongue down his length. Jesus fucking Christ, he feels like he’s going to die if he doesn’t cum. “Only you.”

“And I only want you.” And then he twists his tongue around Stiles’s tip, and he loses the rest of the thoughts in his head.

\--

Stiles wakes up to his phone vibrating against his thigh where his pants are still halfway down his leg, and he wriggles his way out from under Derek’s octopus-y grasp to flop down on the floor, pull his pants up, and grab it. It’s Scott, and he answers the call with a whispered, “One sec,” before hurrying into the bedroom and closing the door behind him.

Once he’s there, he asks, quietly, “Yeah, what’s up?”

“I was talking to Lydia, and I have a question for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a short chapter. There are probably about half a dozen chapters left, and War will be the last major story in the series, though there will still be other short pieces.
> 
> I'm kind of considering trying commissions because money. Not sure yet.


	20. Chapter 20

A (wrong) hand on his shoulder has Stiles reaching for a knife that isn’t there, and then he rolls over and squints at Lydia, who’s standing in his bedroom, looking impeccable. And irritated. “You’re going to be late.”

He blinks at her. “I could have stabbed you.”

She rolls her eyes. “You wouldn’t have a knife in bed with Derek. You’re going to be late.”

“What?” He picks up his phone to look at it, then jackknifes out of bed; she steps back so he lands on the floor in a tangle of limbs instead of on her feet. “Shit.” Derek rolls over on the bed as he clambers to his feet, and he takes a second to drag a hand across his forehead, brushing some of the longer strands of hair out of his face. “Shh, go back go sleep.”

Derek opens his eyes a bit, clearly not awake, and then he closes them again, and the level of trust he has astounds Stiles even now.

And then Stiles runs around grabbing clothing, stripping and changing as he goes, ignoring Lydia’s amused looks. They’ve been naked in front of each other before. It doesn’t really bother him.

She hands him an energy once he has all his clothes on, and he rolls his eyes but takes it even though energy bars taste like sadness fucked a candy bar.

By the time they get outside, he’s awake enough to ask, “Why didn’t I feel you get up this morning?”

Her lips thin. “I’m not sleeping through the night.”

“Have you told Scott?” Her flat stare is answer enough. “Damn it, Lydia, talk to Scott about it. He’s going to be pissed you haven’t told him.”

She sighs. “Fine. Though maybe you should get of your high horse, because it’s not like you’re the paragon of healthy sleep habits.”

“Yeah, but at least Scott knows that.” Stiles leans over to press a kiss to her forehead; she smells like perfume. “One car or two?”

“Two. I’m not waiting around for you to get through your office hours.” She looks at her phone. “You’re going to be late.”

“ _Shit_.”

\--

He’s late by the time he gets to campus (whatever, teacher’s prerogative, and it’s only by like two minutes, and no, he’s not freaking out about it, thank you anxiety), so the hall is basically empty as he rounds the corner to find…his entire Humans in the Pack class—minus Evan—standing in front of the doorway. Which can only mean—

“They ashed the classroom.” Cole sounds stressed, which is unsurprising, because this is fucking unbelievable. “We, uh, thought we should wait for you, because you’re an ashbreaker and all that.”

Stiles nods, taking a second to breathe before crouching down in front of the ash line in front of his classroom door. It’s a different color than usual mountain ash, glittery in a way that makes no fucking sense, and when he touches his finger to it, it comes back glittery and…rough. “Motherfucker.”

Cole asks, “Professor?”

“There’s ground glass in this. Fucking HFU.” Okay, this is going to suck. “Just…give me a minute.” Because he’s going to have to stick his hand in this, because it’s not druid-keyed but it also feels like the kind of ash that needs a human touch because some ash feels like that because motherfucking magic. He rocks back on his heels, then moves his hand towards it—

And it parts, brushing aside before his fingers can even get there, and his vision flares white.

When he looks up, Cole flinches away from him. “I felt that.”

“So did I,” Evan says from behind him, and he turns and stands, trying to hide the fact that his heart just freaked the fuck out that someone was unexpectedly at his back.

Stiles looks at him, and he looks pissed. “I’m going to ignore the fact that you were late only because I was, too.”

Evan’s jaw clenches. “I could feel that, and we’re done. Whatever shit you have going on with the territory, fix it. If you were a werewolf, this would have been taken as an act of aggression, and it’s getting damned uncomfortable to live in this territory. Fix it.”

Cole looks uncomfortable but doesn’t argue, and after a second Stiles nods. “I’m doing what I can. Now it’s time for class. And just try not to step on the ash. Let’s not track it all over the classroom.” He doesn’t need the werewolves to have to smell it even stronger than they will this way.

They all head into the room, the werewolves nearly leaping over the ash line so as not to touch it. He can’t blame them. Even the little bit on his fingers feels…wrong, and not just because it has ground glass in it. More wrong than it usually did, and it always feels wrong. But apparently that’s what being not-really-totally-human makes it feel like.

He scrubs his hand against his legs, then heads into the room, leaving the door open behind him. If some asshole is going to try to ash his students in, he wants to see them coming.

\--

There are werewolves across his spine, heat against the back of his neck, and he breathes, and breathes, and the tree rises up in him, heat expanding in his chest, in his throat, magic and fireflies and demons and death, and he shoves it down, bolting to his feet. He takes a couple steps, turns, takes a couple more steps, his heart pounding in his chest, his throat, and fuck, fuck, fuck, he can’t let it out, he can’t let it in, he can’t do it.

He presses the heel of his palm to his sternum, and after a moment (too long, too long, and every time it takes a little bit longer to push down, and one day it might not go down) the heat recedes down to just a burning ember behind his ribs, one little firefly actually on fire.

“I’m not going to let you win, you know.” The tree doesn’t say anything, but he knows it’s listening. “I’m not going to let you take over this territory or whatever the fuck you’re trying to do, and I know I took this territory but I’m going to get rid of it, and I’m not going to take it again.”

Still nothing, and he presses harder against his chest. “I’m serious. I’m not dragging the kids here through all of the shit that you being in a territory brings because you’re a beacon and they can’t take anything more.”

There’s nothing, no response, no fluttering of that goddamn butterfly in his goddamn chest, and he turns and shoves at his chair, sending it spinning across the room and into the wall. “Mother _fucker_.”

“Professor?”

Stiles spins around, and thank fucking god he doesn’t carry a knife with him on campus because he’s twitchy as hell and _not being fucking vigilant enough what the fuck is wrong with him_. Cole is standing in the doorway, looking uncomfortable. “Hi. Sorry. Come in. What’s up?”

Cole chews on his lower lip, then steps into the office. He looks like prey. The tree likes that. Stiles shoves that down as hard as he can, grabbing his chair from against the wall so he can drop down on it. Cole perches on the edge of his seat. “I hope you don’t mind if I don’t close the door. I’m not really excited about the idea of getting ashed in here.”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, no, makes sense. No problem. What can I do for you?”

“I, uh.” He bites his thumb, his shoulders hunching a little. “I’m not sure how longer I can stay here. In this school. Well, the school’s not the problem. The territory’s the problem. I mean, it’s not just me—I mean, not that other people are saying they’re going to leave, or if they are I don’t know it, but that it’s my alpha, too, she’s not super happy about me being in non-neutral territory, but I can’t do it, too, I can’t keep dealing with it, because I can feel it all the time, and it’s not—it’s not something I can deal with. It’s just that I know that this has to do with you, that you’re the one holding it or something, and I don’t know how and I don’t really care because knowing isn’t going to fix this, but I just—can you fix this? Do you know how to fix this? Because otherwise I’m nog toing to be able to stay, and I need to know that.”

Oh, shit. “I’m…working on it.”

“Yeah, you said that.”

Yeah, he did say that. And it didn’t sound all that believable the first time, either, he knows. Because he doesn’t know what the fuck to do. “And I mean it. I’m going to figure out how to fix all of this.”

“You’re not just saying that because you think it’ll make me feel better or you’re trying to get me to stay or whatever?”

“Believe me, however much you want this to go away, I want it more.”

“Right.” Cole chews on the pad of his thumb for a second. “I just—I don’t want to leave here, you know. I like it here. I like this school. Even with all the shit going down.” He nods, standing. “I just—I just needed to check, you know, to make sure it’s a possibility. That I can stay, I mean.”

Stiles opens his mouth, but he doesn’t know if there’s a possibility, not really, because he doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, so he closes it again and nods. Cole’s lips thin, and then he stands and heads out of the room. He leaves the door open behind him.

\--

“I need to fix this.”

Scott’s sigh comes through the headset like a rush of static because wow, Stiles’s headset is shitty, and then he asks, “So we’re not going to play another round?”

Stiles looks down at his hands, which are shaking on the controller now that he’s not doing anything with them. Adrenaline’s a bitch. “Yeah, no, probably not.”

“Okay. You want to switch to cell phone?”

That would require letting go of his shaking death grip on the controller. The firefly is moving again. “This is good. I’m good with this.”

“Stiles?”

“The kid—Cole, my student—he’s going to leave if I can’t fix what’s going on. I’m the one doing this now. I’m the one fucking over these kids. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”

Scott takes out a second, then lets out a breath. “Okay. Let’s work through this. What do you know?”

“I know I’m holding this territory. I know the tree is inside of me, or at least part of it is, because this is my territory and I’m only holding it because of the tree. I know I can still get through mountain ash. And I got through it—I got through it without touching it today. I think the tree did that.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Stiles clenches his hands on the controller until the plastic creaks and his fingers hurt. “I can feel it. I want it gone. But also—” He swallows. “I think I can use it.”

“You want to play that out for me before I tell you you’re a moron? Because like ten seconds ago you were saying that you wanted it gone.”

The controller creaks again, and he flexes his hands open so it drops down into his lap. “Okay, just hear me out. This is my territory, right? I moved ash without touching it. And God knows what the tree can do.”

“And?”

“And the whole thing with Kate Argent is that I can’t do anything about it, right? There’s no weapon I can walk into jail and threaten her with. But, uh, this. This is a weapon I could threaten her with. I think. And I can push the HFU out of the territory. My territory.”

“They’re human.”

It’s not a no. “So am I.”

Scott is silent again, for even longer this time, and then he says, “I want to say no, because I don’t want you getting within ten miles of Kate Argent or the HFU—because I’ve had to do that before, and let me tell you, that was not fun—but I know how much you hate to be told no.”

Stiles laughs despite himself. “That never stopped you before.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know if you’re wrong either, much as I hate to say it. Look, can you just—I’m going to put Allison on, because she’s better at this shit than I am.”

“Self-appointed bodyguard, right?”

Scott makes an irritated noise. “Don’t remind me.” Right, because she tried that and almost got shot in the head for it. “Okay, she’s going to call your phone in a minute.”

“Fine.” Stiles looks down at his hands, which are still shaking a little. “I’m never going to be able to get myself clean again after this, am I?”

“It’s shit like that that really wants me to say no.” And then he ends the connection.

Stiles takes the headset off of his head, dropping it down on the couch next to him. His phone is in his pocket, and he pulls it out and then just drops it in his lap. Allison will be reasonable. Allison will know how the hell to deal with her aunt, or her dad will, because they’re the pack’s security people. Not that Stiles doesn’t know way more about securing a location than he would like, because they’ve had to.

His phone vibrates in his lap, and he lets it ring once, twice, Allison’s name on the screen with Agazzi instead of Argent because half their life has revolved around keeping that goddamn secret, hasn’t it, and it’s so fucking weird that it’s out now. Finally, he reaches down and picks it up. “Hi there.”

“You serious about going after Kate Argent? Is she even in your territory?”

“She’s at the edge of it.” He can feel her when he tries, so he doesn’t try. “And we can’t just keep letting her and the HFU have free rein over the territory.”

“How fucking big is your territory?”

Too big. “Yes or no, Allison?”

“I can’t just tell you whether or not this is a good idea, because I don’t know how the fuck what you’re doing works. You could go and have nothing happen, and then she would think you were an even better target and go after you specifically.”

“They already shot at me.”

“Did you say that was a student you had interacted with before, though? And you’re a known Werewolf Studies professor on campus. That likely wasn’t about you as _you_ , but about you as a professor. But if she decides to go after you…she burned Derek’s family to death. Is it worth that risk to make yourself a bigger target?”

“It’s not like she isn’t going after us anyway? And what am I supposed to do, let the HFU keep picking my students off one by one until the rest of them leave? I don’t see how that’s an option, not when I might be able to change things.”

“And if she goes after Derek?”

That gives Stiles pause, because fuck, Derek. Derek isn’t going to like this anyway, but to get Derek hurt because of him—

“She won’t.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah.” He wasn’t until he said it, but he is now. “I am, because, as Derek’s been saying, she’s going after me, when she does go after me, because of him. She wants to watch him suffer, because for whatever reason, he still bothers her. Or because she’s a fucking sociopath. I don’t know. Either way, if she kills Derek, she doesn’t get to know he’s suffering. So she’s not going to go after him.”

Allison is silent, working things through, and then she laughs. “How long did you spend researching her? Rhetorical question, don’t answer that. I’ll talk to my dad, but if there’s anything Kate’s going to respond to, it’s a show of force. Don’t go until you hear back, though.”

“Yeah, well, I need to wait for Scott’s permission anyway.”

“Since when?”

Stiles laughs, and his hands are finally still. “Yeah. Well, I’m turning over a new leaf.” He presses his free hand to his sternum. “Every time it seems like we win, we have to stick our hands in another bleeding wound, and they keep being on one of us. I’m getting sick of getting my hands dirty. I’m sick of blood on my hands.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this chapter. Ugh finals.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there is a brief discussion of what Kate did to Derek, and there is some...non-explicit torture (I'm not sure how to give a better warning for that, if someone has a better way to word it, let me know).

“This is a terrible idea. I should be going with you.”

Stiles pulls his phone out of his pocket for the fourth time, looks at it, and them puts it back, only to pull it back out again so he has an excuse to stare at his hands. “No, you really shouldn’t be.”

Derek grabs his chin, tilting his head up, and Stiles fixes his eyes on his chin. Because this is a shitty idea, he knows it, they all know it, and he just wants to get it over with so he can break down in peace. “Give me one good reason.”

“I have more than one.” He steps back, because he can’t have this conversation with the two of them basically on top of each other; he holds on to Derek’s hand, though, tangling their fingers together. “Going there, I’m going to need all of her attention on me, and if you’re there, it’s not going to be. This needs to be a show of force, if I can’t have it look like I’m hiding behind you. And if you’re there, I’m going to spend the entire time worried about you.”

Derek flinches, his fingers almost pulling away; Stiles holds on. “You wouldn’t need to worry about me.”

Who’s Derek kidding? “Yes, I would. And that’s okay. She’s an awful fucking human being. And I don’t want you there.” Derek flinches again, harder, and this time he’s the one who looks away. “Because this is going to fuck me up, and I’m not going to be able to help you. I’m going to need your help. And that’s not going to be possible if you’re there with me.”

Derek takes a second, then looks at him again; he looks not thrilled but less hurt. “If it’s going to fuck you up this badly, why are you going? Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Stiles has a flippant answer that he swallows down because now isn’t the time for that. “Because it might be my only chance to try to stop her. Because she’s untouchable. If she was out of jail, there would be a way to get to her, there would—we have contingency plans, we’ve always had contingency plans, but none of them included the person we were going after being in jail.”

“Contingency plans?”

Stiles pulls his hand away to scrub it across his face. Because this is the part of him he doesn’t really like to talk to Derek about, because it’s not the good part of him. It’s not the pretty part. “We had…plans for what to do, because Gerard Argent gave us immunity, but we always knew it wasn’t going to last forever. We thought it would last longer, at least another decade, because he was old but not that old, but there always were plans. Ways to take out whoever took over the HFU after him. We just didn’t count on them being in jail.”

“Take out?”

Stiles presses his lips together. “Kill. Probably me or Lydia, because their compounds are lined with druid-keyed ash, and Allison couldn’t walk into one again.”

Derek stares at him for a moment, a moment during which Stiles doesn’t say anything because if this is where Derek walks away from him, he’s going to make him do it meeting his eye. And then Derek nods. “When you get back, are you doing to want me to touch you?”

Relief floods him, and it takes him a second to actually open his mouth and answer. “No, but I’m going to need you to. I’m giving you permission now.”

“That’s not—”

“Chances are I’m going to want to scrub my skin off when I get back, and if you don’t touch me I’m going to think it’s because you think I’m dirty. So just—if you don’t think that, I’m going to need you to touch me.”

Derek nods. “Okay. Okay, I can do that.”

Stiles leans forward to give him a kiss, and Derek kisses back, tangling fingers behind the back of his neck. “I love you.”

“Love you too.” Derek kisses him again. “Don’t let her win.”

\--

Kate Argent looks smug when she walks into the room where Stiles is waiting, like he was the prisoner and she was the one visiting. Stiles keeps himself calm, keeps himself breathing, don’t let her see the weakness, don’t look like prey.

She smirks at him once she takes her seat, chains clanking. “Get sick of my fuck buddy yet? I can’t blame you; the only good use for his mouth is getting someone off, and even that can get old.”

Anger fills him, and he lets it, lets it rise up and settle into his eyes, his mouth. It tastes like cheap vodka and bitter chocolate. “I figured we should have a nice little chat, just you and me. No need to bother Derek with having to see you.”

“You don’t think I’m worth your time? I can just leave, then. No need to be where I’m not wanted.”

“You could leave, but you won’t?”

She cocks her head to the side. “And why is that?”

“Because you’re bored. I can’t imagine you get much of a chance to have an intellectually stimulating conversation in jail, child molester you are.”

Her lips thin, and there, he has her. “I’m no child molester.”

“He was a minor, and you fucked him and then burned his family to death. Not sure what else I would call that.”

Her jaw clenches. “Why are you here?”

Stiles smiles at her, deliberately, making it hard, making it angry, because they had contingency plans but so does he, and his morality has always been a lot more variable than Scott’s. It’s the thing he learned in high school; when you’re living under siege, you learn what’s important, and being a good person doesn’t rank that high. “I’m here to give you a warning: stop what you’re doing, or I’ll kill you.”

She bursts out laughing, and he waits her out, keeping that smile on his face because for once in his life, right now, he’s not prey. “That’s funny. You see where we are?”

“I do.”

“And you know who I am.”

“I do.”

“So what makes you think you would be able to touch me?”

Stiles takes a breath and, for the first time, lets the tree in. It rises up in him, heat and warmth and sugar on his tongue, and his smile grows, becomes genuine, because he’s a thousand years old, and this girl thinks she can argue with him? He owns this territory, so he owns her.

“You seem to think you know what’s going on here.”

She recoils a little, then stiffens her shoulders, pasting that smirk back on her face. “Yeah, you know what, I do. Because I’ve managed to lead the world’s largest Hunting organization from inside jail.”

“Your group of little soldier boys, running around trying to pick off children with paintballs?” Stiles leans back in his chair, crossing one leg across the other and setting his arms in his lap. He’ll wait. He’s patient. “I wouldn’t call that particularly impressive.”

One lip lifts in a snarl, but he lives with werewolves, and she has nothing on them. Just a spoiled little girl masquerading as a monster. “Get to the point, _Stiles_ , or I’m gone.”

“Keep threatening to leave, and I’m going to start thinking you mean it.” stiles licks his lips. “But the point? Here’s the point. I own this territory. I own this building, these walls, this floor. That chair you’re sitting on. You. And believe me, your people will be gone from my territory soon. But I thought I’d be nice, because, truth be told, rivers of blood aren’t quite my thing. At least not all of me. So I’ll give you a choice. Call all of them off and get them to leave my territory voluntarily, and they’ll live. Probably.”

“The hell I will.”

stiles smiles. “I was hoping you would say that.” He drops his leg down and leans forward, pulling on the territory underneath his feet. It shifts under him, not used to being called upon because it was neutral for too long, wasted, the telluric currents so strong with nobody using them, and then it comes up for him, heat and warmth and _power_.

He wraps it around her throat, squeezing, not enough to cut off the air, not yet, but enough for her to feel it. She tries to grab at her throat, chains clanging as her hands catch. “Hunters aren’t afraid to die,” she rasps out, even as her fingers claw at the table, and stiles doesn’t particularly want to listen to her talk, so he tightens the grip, pressing down on her carotid.

Her hands spasm, chains rattling as she tries to get closer to her throat, even though there are no hands to peel away. She smells like fear. “You ready to call them off?” She shakes her head, so stiles kicks to his feet, tucking his hands in his pocket and turning to leave. “I’ll be heading out, then. Don’t worry, you won’t die. Yet.” He starts walking towards the door, whistling as he walks; her chains rattle and clang behind him.

He’s almost to the door when she gasps, “I’ll call them off. I’ll do it. I’ll call them off.”

He holds where he is for a moment, just to listen to her gasp, and then he turns back to look at her, hands still stuck in his pockets. She’s staring at him, hands opening and closing against the table. stiles bares his teeth and lets her go.

Kate Argent sags in her chair, sucking in deep breaths, and stiles watches her do so. He reaches up to thumb his lip. “Remember that I own you. And if they don’t stop, I won’t be as nice the next time.”

While she’s still trying to breathe, he turns to go.

The territory is humming under his feet, wanting to be used, because it’s like a river that’s been dammed up and he’s just opened a hole in the dam. It feels like power running through him like electricity, like a current, and if he wants it to stop he’s going to need to stick his finger in. And he’s not sure he wants it to stop.

But he knows he needs this to stop, he knows that, he knows Scott doesn’t him to have this power, knows Derek doesn’t want him to, but if he has it he’ll be able to keep them safe, he’ll be able to keep them safe, and stiles nods to the guard, smiles, and keeps walking, out to the parking lot, out to the car, where Stiles stops, fishes out his keys, and throws up.

He stands there for a minute, dry heaving, glad he mostly only consumed coffee that morning because even though that burns coming up it’s not as bad as food. The tree is still there, in his head, chocolate and honey in his mouth, and the taste makes him gag as he forces it down.

By the time he gets it down, the dry heaving has stopped, and he grabs a bottle of water from inside to wash his mouth out because he’s not going hours with the taste of regurgitated coffee in his mouth.

And then he gets in his car and starts driving.

Stiles gets ten minutes in before the shaking hits, and he clenches his hands around the steering wheel so the car doesn’t start swerving; his fingers cramp, and it hurts, and he wants it to hurt, because oh God, what has he done.

He was always prepared to do whatever was needed to stop whoever was threatening those he loves, but torture—torture’s that line that you’re never supposed to cross, even in war, even when you have the backing of the government and the legitimate use of force. And he did it by letting the demon back into his head, the thing he was never going to do, the line he’d drawn for himself, and now he’s going back to Derek, and Derek’s going to know exactly what he’s done, because he _told him_.

And Derek spent so long trying to get away from Kate Argent, from people like her, and Stiles just brought Kate Argent to her knees without even putting a finger on her. And what kind of monster does that make him, if he can bring a monster to her knees?

And he doesn’t know if he should put Derek through that, if he should put him through having to see him, because Derek’s too goddamn self-sacrificing and he won’t tell Stiles to go away, but he should, he really fucking should, because Stiles has the tree inside him now, again, a demon inside of him, and he’s dirty under his skin, dirty inside his blood.

But where else does he have to go, except to Derek, because that’s where he lives now, too, and he doesn’t know if he can leave the territory, doesn’t know if he should. But Lydia is in his territory, too, and she knows he isn’t good. She saw him during the first time, saw him before Eichen House and after, and she won’t let him break her.

So he drives to her apartment and parks the car and gets himself out of it somehow, hands shaking and cramped and screaming in pain, and he doesn’t care, he doesn’t fucking care, he doesn’t care about any of it, and by the time she opens the door he doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore.

She stares at him for a second, then reaches up and touches his cheek, and he recoils away because he’s dirty. “Oh, Stiles, what have you done to yourself?”

“She’s going to call them off.” He doesn’t know if that’s his voice, because it sounds wrong. Everything sounds wrong. “You’re safe.”

“Okay.” Lydia takes a step back, holding her door further open. “Come in.”

He tries to step forward but can’t quite get himself to move. “I’m dirty.”

“You do what you do to keep us safe. I wouldn’t say you were dirty for doing that.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t care. Come inside, Stiles.”

He walks inside then, skirting around her so he doesn’t touch her. She leads him over to her couch, and he sits down on the floor in front of it, pressing his back to the front of it. She hands him a glass of water, and he tries to lift it to his mouth, but his hands are shaking too badly, so he just sets it down between his legs.

Stiles closes his eyes.

“Have you called Derek?”

He can’t—he can’t. He closes his hand around the glass, imagines it shattering into pieces.

“Drink your water.”

Lydia walks away. He can’t blame her. He doesn’t want to be near himself. He wants to be out of his skin, out of all of it, wants to tear it off of him, but that would mean touching his own skin, and he doesn’t want to do that. Because he’s turned into the one thing he told himself he would never turn into, because he’s done a lot of things behind Scott’s back, but Scott never agreed to torture, would never have agreed to torture, would never have agreed to what he threatened to do to Kate Argent. Because he would have done it, if she hadn’t agreed. That wasn’t a bluff. That was a threat. And he would have done it just to know she was suffering.

Hands touch his, warm, large, and he jerks his away, but they grab on, holding, and he opens his eyes to see Derek sitting in front of him. But Derek wasn’t supposed to see him like this, he wasn’t supposed to put Derek through this, so he jerks away again, or tries to, but Derek won’t let go, why won’t he let go, Stiles is dirty, he’s infected, the demon is inside his head and it’s not going out, not now, not once he’s let it in, let it play around in the power of the telluric currents running underneath them, and he can feel them even now, vibrating like a wire pulled taut.

“Shh, shh.” Derek lets go with one hand to reach out and touch Stiles’s face, following even as Stiles moves his head back. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“It’s okay.”

Stiles digs his free hand into the side of his leg, holding on hard, pressing, and it almost hurts, but not enough. “You shouldn’t—I’m not. It’s not okay. You shouldn’t.”

“I should.” Derek’s hand slides up into Stiles’s hair, and it feels good, and it shouldn’t feel good, he shouldn’t be allowed to feel good, and he cringes away, shoulders hunching. “Okay. Okay. You need to breathe. You need to keep breathing.”

Kate Argent gasping for breath, chains clanging, and he lurches to the side, gagging, stomach aching, and Derek’s hand rubs up and down his back, and he can’t make himself move away from the comfort. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.” Derek’s hand slides to the back of Stiles’s neck. “You’re okay. I love you. I love you so much.”

“You”—he dry-heaves—“shouldn’t.”

“Doesn’t matter. I love you.”

“We both do.” Another hand touches his hair, movement on the couch. Lydia’s fingers stroke his forehead. “Close your eyes. I know you don’t like who you are right now, so we’ll like you enough for all of us until you do.”

It takes him a second, and then he closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the couch. Both of them are touching him, and it’s almost okay.

And then his phone vibrates in his pocket, and before he can pull it out, Lydia leans down and grabs it. She doesn’t say anything.

“What does it say?”

She’s silent for a moment, and then she says, “It’s from someone named Evan saying they felt ‘that’, and that you have a week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me not studying for finals. The next chapter will probably not be so quick, unless I get really fed up with my essay over the weekend.


	22. Chapter 22

Stiles wakes up in Lydia’s bed between her and Derek, which is basically one of the best places to be. Derek has his arm around Stiles’s waist from behind, his face buried against the back of Stiles’s neck, and Lydia is sprawled mostly on top of Stiles.

He doesn’t really want to move, because this is the best he’s felt in weeks, so he just runs his hand up and down Lydia’s back, tracing her spine with his fingers. She’s a little too thin, always has been, and that he can’t even blame on the shit they’ve been through. Though the fact that he’s pretty sure this is the most sleep she’s gotten in weeks definitely isn’t helping matters.

Sometime later, she stiffens, then picks her head up off his chest to blink at him. He smiles down at her. “You can go back to sleep.”

She rolls her eyes. “Unlikely.” And then she leans up, kisses him on the lips, and rolls off the bed to pad, barefoot and dressed only in a shirt that definitely once belonged to Parrish, to the bathroom.

Derek’s hand slides up his chest, and Stiles turns to look at him; his eyes are open. “I hope that wasn’t a problem.”

Derek smiles sleepily at him. “She’s pack to you.” He shrugs a shoulder. “You love her. That’s fine.”

Stiles buries his face in Derek’s throat, breathing in his scent, heat and sweat and werewolf. He mumbles something against Derek’s skin, then moans and presses harder against him when Derek asks him what he said. Because it was stupid, and he shouldn’t have asked it, and it’s going to sound like he’s being insecure when he’s not this time.

But Derek tugs at his hair until he picks his head up. “What?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “What did you say?”

Fine. “I asked if you loved her, too.”

Derek stiffens, then, for whatever fucking reason, starts to smile. Which is kind of weird, because Stiles just asked his boyfriend if he loves one of Stiles’s best friends. And it was a stupid question anyway, because it’s not like Stiles wants to fuck Lydia, at least not anymore. That would be weird.

Derek reaches up to touch Stiles’s cheek. “Hey, I’m not angry with you. I was just surprised. I—not like I love you. But she’s pack to you, and so she’s—it’s—” His lips compress, and Stiles leans down to kiss him quickly because goddamn he loves Derek. “I like sharing a bed with her. And if you—I couldn’t be open with sex, I couldn’t—I don’t care if she kisses you. I like that she kisses you. It makes you happy. But more than that, I can’t—”

“I’m not asking you if I can have sex with Lydia. But we still haven’t actually figured out boundaries.”

Derek shrugs again. “You’re pack. Jealousy doesn’t—you’re pack.”

“Okay.” They can have a complete conversation about that later—maybe, if they remember—but for right now they should probably get up so Stiles can start cooking because Lydia’s breakfast cooking consists of cereal and energy bars. Nobody is surprised she doesn’t weigh enough.

He finds eggs in her fridge for god knows what reason, seeing as he’s never seen her cook them in his life, and he goes about making scrambled eggs because she does have butter and milk, at least. Derek heads out at some point while Stiles is hunting through her cabinets for something that isn’t energy bars, organic cereal, or for whatever reason, a shit ton of canned fruit.

He tracks her when she walks in to the room, so he doesn’t startle when she puts a hand on the small of his back. Like Allison does. Because Allison would take a bullet for him, but Lydia would shoot the son of a bitch in the head for him. For them.

“I cause any problems with your boyfriend?”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s fine.”

“Good.” She peers around him. “Eggs?”

“It’s not like you have anything else in here. What do you eat?”

“Food.” She touches the back of his neck, sliding her fingers up into his hair. “Your boyfriend want to fuck me?”

Not in any sense of the word, but he’s not going to explain that to her without Derek’s permission. “No.”

“More’s the pity.” She laughs when he grimaces at her. “Don’t worry, I have no plans on impinging on his honor. Or yours. Though if you offered…”

“Sorry, but he’s mine, and I’m not planning on sharing.”

“Possessive, are you?” He shrugs, turning off the heat under the eggs. She touches his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“I am trying really, really hard not to think about it. So yeah. Right now, I’m fine. Making eggs, I’m fine. Sharing a bed with you and Derek, I’m fine. And I will continue to not think about it until I absolutely fucking have to.” He turns, taking the pan with him.

She turns with him. “You’re going to have to talk to Scott.”

“Yep.”

“If you don’t call him, I will.” Stiles puts the pan on a coaster on the table, then starts pulling out plates from her cabinet. She owns four. It’s enough. “I’m serious. I’m not going to let you break yourself over this when I can do something about it.”

“I’ll call him. I just don’t want pity, and I don’t want a lecture, and I love Scott, but sometimes his morality gets in the way of his practicality. It’s why we follow him, because he knows what lines we’re not supposed to cross. But…he’s a better person than me.”

She touches his cheek, and after a second he stops, looks over at her. “He’s a better person than all of us. He’s also in charge.”

“Yeah.” Stiles sighs. “Yeah, I know. I’m going to call him.”

“And your dad.”

Fuck. Right. His dad. “Dad comes after Scott.” He looks at the cut on her arm. “Do you ever regret not just packing up and getting the hell out of Beacon Hills?”

“What do you think I did?”

“I mean before it got back, or when it was getting bad. Just saying fuck it and leaving.”

“Every day.” She laughs shortly. “But only if I could have gotten all of you out, too. By the time it got bad—by the time it got bad and I knew—I was in too deep. Leaving you all behind wasn’t an option. And the twins—by the time that happened, I was angry.” She pokes him in the sternum, hard enough to hurt. “I don’t like people hurting those I love.”

Stiles meets her eye for a moment, then looks away. “Food’s going to get cold.” Derek might have heard him from wherever he is, but Stiles isn’t sure, so he shouts, “Derek, food.”

Derek walks out of the bedroom in jeans and a Henley shirt, his hair wet. He gives Stiles a kiss, then smiles when Lydia leans up and kisses his cheek. She doesn’t have lipstick on yet, so there is no smear of red left behind. “Thank you for cooking.”

Lydia rolls her eyes, dropping down into one of the chairs. “All Stiles. It’s getting cold.”

Stiles sits down next to her. “Oh, don’t pretend that was your idea.”

“Would you like me to do the math for how quickly the eggs are losing heat for you, or do you want to eat?”

Derek takes some of the food and starts eating it, because werewolf, and Stiles shoves the eggs at Lydia to makes sure she eats. She grabs some, and Stiles takes what’s left, and then they all eat together in silence. Which is nice. He can do silence. Silence works.

Once they’re done eating, Derek says, “I’ll clean up.”

Lydia smiles at him, then looks at Stiles and says, “You picked a good one. I like him.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You just like people who will do stuff for you.”

“And I don’t even need to pay him with sex.” Derek chokes on air midway through standing up, and Lydia smirks at him. “It’s amazing what you can get when you offer a few blowjobs and show some cleavage.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Derek smirks back at her, grabbing the rest of the plates. “It’s a bit hard for me to show cleavage.”

“The blowjobs are pretty good, though.”

Derek kisses Stiles’s forehead, bizarrely chastely, then heads over to the sink. Lydia looks at Stiles. “I know you don’t want to think about it, but what are you going to do about the territory?”

Derek stops washing for a second, the water running but no scrubbing noise, then goes back to it. Stiles sighs. “I need to get rid of it, but before I do that, I need to get the HFU out of it.”

Her lips thin. “I hate to ask you this, but is getting rid of the territory a good idea? It is, as of right now, the only hold you have over Kate Argent. Unless you figured something else out.”

“I didn’t. But I can’t keep it. I can’t take this neutral territory away from the school. Students are going to start leaving, and I’m not going to force them out.”

“And there’s no other way to fix it?”

“I—” He doesn’t know. “Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe.” He rubs a hand across his mouth. “I don’t want this territory, and I don’t want the tree in my head.”

She stares at him for a second, so long that he looks away. “You’re dreaming about Eichen House again, aren’t you? It wasn’t just that one time.”

“I’ve been dreaming about Eichen House for like eight years. It’s not an again, it’s a still. But yeah, it’s getting worse, and that’s not someone I want to be talking about, either.”

“You need to tell Scott about that, too.”

This is the one time he has something over on her. “Oh, he knows. Believe me, he knows. We have chatted at length about the fucking shit show that is the traumatic aftermath of my time in Eichen House, and I _really don’t want to talk about it_.”

A hand falls on his shoulder, suddenly, and he lurches away, spinning, reaching for a knife he doesn’t have because he’s fucking safe and that’s Derek, goddamn it, this is why he doesn’t think about Eichen House. And Derek is standing there looking devastated, like Stiles just actually stabbed him, and Stiles has to look and check to make sure he didn’t get a knife from somewhere because that’s how little he trusts what’s in his head at the moment (because the tree lies, it always lies, and then he can’t read, and last time it wasn’t even all the way inside his head, and now it’s there, but he knows).

Lydia stands, moving into his field of vision, and he doesn’t move because he’s not fine anymore.

“Where do you think you are?”

He glances at her, and his eyes feel jittery, like he’s on his fifth cup of coffee instead of not having had any. “I’m in your apartment. I know where I am.”

“What do you think is going on?”

“I know what’s going on.” His hands are covered in blood. They’ve always been covered in blood, since he put that first knife in the rogue, or before that, when he dragged Scott into the forest. What he’s doing now, what he’s done, it’s just making him dirtier.

Just like Eichen House, where he watched people die, where he almost died. The first time the tree saved his life.

She steps between him and Derek, shifting as he moves. “Do you want me to call Scott?”

“I shouldn’t have come here.”

“Did you react when he touched you because you didn’t want to dirty him or because you were scared?”

Stiles doesn’t want to answer, but she asked, and he’s not going to lie to her. “Scared.”

“Okay.” She takes a step towards him, then stops. Derek doesn’t move. He’s watching them. “Why did you look like you thought you hurt him?”

“I reached for a knife. The tree lies. It could have been there.”

She doesn’t look behind her when she asks, “Derek, are you okay?”

Derek nods. “I’m fine.”

She takes another step towards him. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you trust Derek?”

“Yes.” Another step. She’s almost touching him now. He doesn’t move. She reaches out and takes his hands, pulling them around her as she presses up against him. He wraps his arms around her because what else can he do, and she leans up so her mouth is against his ear. “I will never let them touch you again.”

He closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She threads her hands in his hair, and he tightens his grip on her. “Don’t apologize for surviving. Don’t you dare.”

Stiles squeezes her, then pulls back, opening his eyes. She looks at him, then nods, stepping back. He walks past her to Derek, who’s just standing there like he doesn’t know what the hell to do; Derek doesn’t move, not until Stiles wraps his arms around him, burying his face against his throat. “I’m sorry. I’m not scared of you. I’m sorry.”

Derek curls around him. “I need to know what your triggers are. I need to know what happened.”

Stiles stiffens, because god damn it, he doesn’t want to talk about it. “Ask Lydia.”

“Stiles—”

Stiles pulls away from him. “Ask Lydia. I’m not talking about it. Or if you don’t want to ask her, ask Scott or Allison.”

Derek looks past him. “Lydia?”

“I’ll tell you, but I’m not going to make Stiles listen to it.” She looks at Stiles. “You want to go shower?”

Stiles nods, then leans up to give Derek a kiss before heading in to the bathroom. He can hear Lydia and Derek talking behind them, but he doesn’t listen.

The thing is that, compared to some of the other shit, Eichen House was objectively not that bad. Nobody died, all of his friends were safe, and he voluntarily put himself there. But he almost died there, and it was all for nothing. It wasn’t to stop anybody, it wasn’t to save anybody. It just…was, and that’s not really something he could deal with. It’s not something he’s ever been able to deal with.

And the fact that the tree saved him didn’t help matters.

By the time he gets out of the shower, he’s warm, and most of that awful blankness he goes to when he’s hardcore avoiding processing whatever he doesn’t want to think about has been replaced with…okayness. Not great, but he’s not about to freak out.

Derek’s discarded sweatshirt from the day before is on the floor near the bed, and Stiles grabs it in lieu of a shirt because he’s lazy and also he wants something of Derek’s on, and then he pulls his jeans back on and heads out to where Derek and Lydia are. They’re sitting separately; Lydia’s in one of her chairs, Derek sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. He looks up when Stiles walks in, and he looks not great.

Stiles really doesn’t want to talk about it, though, so he just curls up against Derek. Derek wraps an arm around him, and with Lydia watching them, they sit there.

Finally, Stiles says, “I want ice cream.”

Derek snorts. “Of course you do.”

“Hey, panic takes calories. Or something. Whatever. Don’t laugh at me.” He looks at Lydia. “We’re getting ice cream. Want to join?”

She smirks at him. “I think I’ll do something a bit more…adult.”

“Does that mean we should clear our extraneous clothing out, if you’re planning on bringing a guy back here?”

“I don’t fuck men here, so no need.” She stands. “I’m going to go make myself look fuckable, because I plan to spend all day in bed. As you know, I won’t protest spending another night with the two of you, though no hard feelings if you’re not here when I get back.” And with that, she walks into her bedroom, leaving them alone.

Stiles looks at Derek. “Ice cream.”

Derek smiles back. “Ice cream.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you might be able to tell, I'm a fan of polya Derek/Stiles/Lydia with romantic primary partnership Derek/Stiles and queerplatonic secondary partnership Stiles/Lydia. It's not going to happen, at least not officially, in this one, because...well, because I'm too close to done with the main story to introduce another relationship, and it's not set up quite right for that, but I really like that.
> 
> EDIT: For those of you freaking out over the thought that I might be adding Lydia to the relationship, I'm not. Hence the "It's not going to happen" like four lines up. It's not going to happen. So just...calm down. Please.
> 
> Also, what I should do after I'm done writing War: finish Take You In. What I'm tempted to do: write one of those ridiculous Sentinel/Guide ensemble stories with like half a dozen different fandoms.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: a character threatens to commit suicide. If you want to skip this part, stop reading at "Do you know how long I have been alive?” and skip to "stiles actually does unfold himself now". An explanation of what happens is in the end notes.
> 
> Following that scene, there are a couple of mentions of what happened. If it's really going to bother you, you might be better off skipping the rest of the chapter.

“We need to talk.”

There’s silence for a moment, and then stiles is there, sitting cross-legged on the table in front of Stiles; he jerks back, pulling his legs up on to the couch so there’s no chance of them touching. Because if this doesn’t go well, he really doesn’t want to be touching an angry tree.

stiles smiles. “Hello, there. About time you called on me.” He steeples his fingers, bandages over bandages. “So, Stiles. Talk.”

Stiles scrubs his hand across his mouth. “I need a way to get everyone who’s fighting for the HFU out of this territory.”

The smile turns into stiles positively fucking beaming. “Like we promised Katherine Argent? I can do that.”

“Without killing any of them.” He hates them to the depths of whatever is left of his soul, but they’re kids, mostly, college students, stupid and misguided and bigoted, but they don’t deserve to die.

stiles’s head tilts to the side. “You’re so naïve to think that they won’t continue what they are doing someplace else? If you send them out of here alive, there will be nothing to stop them from starting this war in the next place they find. And those children may not have a druid-trained ashbreaker to save them.”

Stiles’s lips press tight, and he takes a deep breath because he is not playing this game. It’s not happening. “Since when do you care about the wellbeing of children?”

“I could not care less about the wellbeing of children, but you do care, and well, it might give me the chance to kill someone.” The grin that follows is disconcertingly human, and Stiles has the brief but terrifying thought that he might actually be running off on the tree. Which means that the tree might be rubbing off on him. And Jesus, he doesn’t want to think about that.

But first things first. “I’m not killing anyone. We’re not killing anyone. I just want them out. Because I’m not killing anyone, and because people can change. Allison changed. Look, I’m not going to defend this to you.”

“Very well. I can use the same technique that I used to persuade Katherine Argent.”

Jesus. “No. No, we’re not doing that.”

“Pity.” The word is casual, but precise, and he really dos sound like the thinks it’s a pity.

“Yeah, no. I just need a way to get them out without…hurting any of them. Also without knowing who any of them are.”

“You take all the fun out of everything, don’t you. If you insist.”

And then Stiles’s mouth opens, and air floods down his throat, and from him stiles says, “To all those who have fought for the HFU and to all those who plan to fight, to those who would seek to harm those in my territory, you have twenty-four hours to leave the territory.”

And then stiles smiles, and Stiles shoves away from him, moving into the corner of the couch because holy motherfucking shit. “What the _fuck_ was that?”

“They got the message.”

“How did they—” His phone goes off in his pocket, and he pulls it out and answers it. “What?”

Lydia answers, sounding more scared than he had heard her in a long time. “Tell me that was you.”

“It was me. What happened?”

“Stiles?”

Stiles sighs. “it was the tree via me, or me via the tree. What happened?”

“A voice, and we all heard it, or felt it, saying that anyone who was HFU had to get out of the territory within 24 hours. It sounded like your voice, but…not.”

It was basically kind of what he was expecting. “Okay. Yeah, that was me.”

“How?”

He didn’t think of that, but there’s only one possible answer. “Telluric currents. There are almost as many running through here as there are through Beacon Hills; they just don’t have any big intersection points.”

“If you keep pulling the tree up, are you going to be able to keep pushing it back down?”

Stiles very carefully doesn’t look at the almost-mirror of him sitting on the table in front of him. “I’m fine.”

“Stiles.”

“Yeah, I know.” He hangs up, putting his phone in his lap before looking up at stiles, who’s watching him with a disturbingly indulgent look on his face. “So. Let’s make a deal.”

“A deal?” stiles raises one eyebrow. “You, you think making a deal with me is a good idea? Do you know how long I have been alive?”

“Oh, yeah, I am intimately familiar with how long you’ve been alive.” Stiles takes in a deep breath, forces himself to relax, because this won’t work if stiles thinks he’s bluffing. Because he’s not. “So here’s my deal: you make this neutral territory again, and I won’t kill myself.”

There’s a moment of stillness, with Stiles’s heart pounding in his throat because holy shit, what has he done, and then, inexplicably, stiles starts to smile, slowly, and if he never sees that smile on his own face again it will be too soon. “That is not what I thought you were going to say.” He makes that sound like a good thing. “You’re operating on a delusion, but it is an unexpected one.”

“What delusion?”

“That I would let you die.” stiles looks like he’s unfolding himself, even though he doesn’t seem to move, and Stiles is going to learn that trick if he survives this. “I stopped one bullet from going into your head. Do you think I can’t stop another?”

“I wouldn’t shoot myself in the head.” The idea of leaving anyone to find him like that is not something he would ever consider.

“And you would do this to Derek, to Lydia, to Scott?”

No, he wouldn’t, he really wouldn’t, except he has to, because there’s no other way out that he can see, and he can’t keep living in this tunnel that keeps getting longer. “See, I intend to survive this, ultimately. Territory disconnects when the holder dies, and I have no Alphaness for it to transfer tied to. So I only need to die. I don’t need to stay dead.”

“You’re bluffing.”

Stiles stares at him. “Am I?” There’s silence, long, stretching, warm taffy across taut wire, and this is not going to go well if stiles doesn’t believe that he’s telling the truth. So he pulls his phone out and dials.

“McCall.”

“Hey. It’s Stiles.”

Melissa makes a surprised noise, then says, “Oh, Stiles. Is something wrong with Scott?”

Oh, shit. “What? No. Sorry. I haven’t talked to Scott in a day or two. As far as I know, he’s fine. I actually have a medical question for you. A kind of medical question. It’s a complicated question. Well, not super complicated, but the answer is probably going to be complicated.”

“Stiles.” She sounds annoyed, but motherly annoyed, not shut-the-fuck-up annoyed, because she knows him well. Also he’s like the adopted cousin who sometimes shows up and just doesn’t leave for a while.

“Right. So, um, how can I kill myself so that I have the best chance of being successfully resuscitated?”

There’s a heartbeat of silence, and then she says, “I’m calling Scott. I need you to stay on the phone with me. And, uh, do you have anyone with you? Do you have anyone who can make sure you don’t hurt yourself?”

Stiles is pretty sure the tree doesn’t count. “Look, no, wait. I don’t actually want to kill myself. But this is a pack thing.”

“So calling Scott shouldn’t be a problem.”

Her calling Scott would be a bit of a problem, because Scott might order him not to do that because there’s a small chance he’s doing this without talking to Scott first because Scott will say no because he doesn’t understand that sometimes people have to be sacrificed for the greater good. “I need an answer.”

“Stiles, I can’t tell you how to kill yourself. I can’t do that.”

“If you don’t tell me, I’m just going to try what I think is best.”

“Christ. I’m going to need to call 911 on you if you keep talking about this. I know you don’t want to go back to a mental health hospital, but I can’t let you kill yourself.”

stiles actually does unfold himself now, standing up between the table and the couch, which is so startling Stiles actually jerks back into the couch. He reaches out and the pulls the phone out of Stiles’s hand, holding it up to his ear as Stiles grabs for it. “You’re right,” he says into it, and he sounds unbelievably, disconcertingly like Stiles in a way that Stiles doesn’t usually think about. “Sorry, it has just been a long month.” He pauses, stepping out of the way as Stiles lunges for the phone, because what the everloving fuck? “No, you really do not need to call 911 on me. But it is fine if you call Scott.” Another pause. “Thank you, Melissa, but no, I am fine.”

He hangs up the phone, handing it back to Stiles, who grabs it. “What the fuck?”

stiles stares at him for a long moment, his jaw working like he’s an actual fucking human being and not just a product of Stiles’s imagination—a product that just talked to Melissa McCall, and oh God—and then he lunges forward and grabs Stiles by the throat, fingers clenching around his windpipe until Stiles is gasping for breath (and is this what Kate Argent felt like?). “I own you. I _own_ you. You are not allowed to die until I give you permission to, and that will not happen until I am _done with you_.”

He holds where he is for a moment, Stiles’s gasps for breath whistling as he scrabbles for purchase against stiles’s wrists, which are covered in bandages and both too close and too far from being human. And then stiles lets go, brushing his hands off against each other as though they could have gotten dirty; Stiles scrambles upright, trying to breathe.

stiles smiles. “I will not make this territory neutral again. I own this territory, just like I own you.” Stiles opens his mouth to answer, but it just comes out as a cough. “But I do own this territory, and I will make a deal. To all those who live in this territory other than you, the territory will feel neutral, though it will not be.”

It takes Stiles a second, because that…doesn’t make any sense. Because Stiles was expecting to have to get close to actually killing himself to get an agreement, because Stiles doesn’t know if his plan would actually work. So what the fuck?

But then he asks, “What do you want in exchange?”

“Twelve hours a month.”

“What?”

stiles folds himself back down onto the table. “For twelve hours a month, we will talk, and in exchange, I will make the territory how you want.”

He’s not going to be able to do that. He’s actually. Like, it might actually break him if he has to spend twelve hours a month talking to the tree. “Two hours.”

The smile grows. “Ten.”

“Four.”

“Eight.”

“I’ll do six. I won’t do more than six.” He doesn’t know what he’ll do if stiles insists on going above six.

But stiles just nods. “Six.” And there’s something on his face that looks something like relief, but Stiles doesn’t have time to worry about that, because there is a feeling inside of him, like heat in his veins and molasses against his tongue, like breathing and the need to breathe, and he’s drowning as he gasps, gasps, fingers clutching at his throat (and he is Kate Argent, isn’t he, and Scott as a child, and they say drowning is a pleasant way to die but he would prefer almost anything else).

And then it’s gone, and so is stiles, and Stiles drops down off of the couch to press his back against the back of the couch and breathe.

\--

It takes him a few vibrations of his phone to realize that it’s going off, and then he grabs at it, and it’s Scott, and this conversation is going to suck. He answers it and sticks it up to his ear, saying, “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Why did my mom just call me saying you were going to kill yourself for the pack?” Scott sounds Alpha-angry, and Stiles feels himself reacting, his shoulder hunching, his head bowing.

“The way to get rid of a territory is to die. I was going to do it so I could be brought back, and I know that’s not reliable, and I know I could have died, and I know I should have talked to you, but I’m not going to do it, I promise I’m not going to do it, because I don’t need to do it, and the territory feels neutral to everyone else now, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He’s crying now, and he’s fucking sick of crying and of feeling awful, and he knows that this is his fault, and he knows that he’s making decisions that he probably shouldn’t be because everything is such a fucking mess.

Scott makes a noise. “You know you can’t do that, right? You know you can’t just—do that to yourself.”

“I know. I’m not going to. I’m sorry.” He’s sobbing, hard, because he doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t want to do that to the people he loves, and he just wanted all of this to be over, and it is, and he doesn’t know what to do now. Because it’s over.

“Okay.” The last of the Alphaness drops from Scott’s voice, and he just sounds like human(ish)!Scott again. “Okay. We can talk about this later, but I just needed to—damn it, Stiles. I know you don’t think you’re worth as much as w—but you are.” Stiles hears a short chuffing noise and realizes with horror that Scott is crying. He made Scott cry. Fuck. “I’m sorry. Isaac, can you—”

There’s a scuffling sound, and then Isaac says, “I don’t know what you did, but Scott is currently sobbing on my very nice sweater, and Allison isn’t around to deal with real human being emotions.”

Stiles chokes out a laugh through his own sobbing. “I think you’re best in the pack at real human being emotions, other than Scott.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic. Are you okay? Did anybody die?”

Maybe Isaac isn’t the best at emotions. Stiles wipes the wetness off of his face, then says, “No. Well, no, nobody died, but yes, I am okay.”

“Scott is saying you’re not okay.”

“I’m mostly okay. I, um, I threatened the tree, and it could have gone badly, and I’m going to be a coward and make Scott tell you, because I’m already going to need to have this chat with Derek and Lydia, and it’s not going to be fun.”

“Whatever.” Isaac hums. “No, Scott, I’m not giving you the phone back unless you order me to.” Scott says something, too far away from the words to be picked up. “Good. Why am _I_ the stable one, right now? I’m never the stable one.”

Stiles closes his eyes; a few tears are still leaking out, but he’s mostly done crying. “Can you talk about something? Whatever. Do you have any new scarves? Or shoes?”

“You want me to talk to you? About _shoes_?”

“Please.”

“Okay.” And then he starts talking, and Stiles closes his eyes and listens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the scene, Stiles threatens to kill himself as a bargaining tool to try to get the Nemeton (aka stiles) to agree to make the territory neutral again. To convince the tree he's serious, he calls Melissa McCall and asks her for advice in killing herself. She says that she will call 911 and have him brought to the hospital if he keeps talking about that.
> 
> This is either the second to last or third to last chapter, depending on how the next chapter turns out. But we're almost there. (It goes uphill from here, I promise.) There will be more short pieces after this, but the main story will be done.
> 
> I've already started writing a Sentinel/Guide ensemble story. (Why do I do this to myself?)


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a note, while this chapter isn't about suicide, it's in large part a reaction to the events of the previous chapter, so just be aware if that might trigger you.

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

Stiles grimaces, looking up at where Derek is storming into the apartment, door slamming behind him. He’s barely on his feet by the time Derek reaches him. “Lydia told you.”

Derek stops in front of him, nails pointed into claws, face half-turned. “ _Scott_ told me, because he knew you wouldn’t have the fucking sense to tell me yourself. What the _fuck_ were you _thinking_?”

“I was thinking that you left the only people left in your pack because you didn’t want to live in a territory that’s partly owned by people outside of your pack.”

“I left because of this,” Derek snaps, flaring his blue eyes at Stiles. “I left because I kill everyone I love. Tell me you didn’t fucking try to kill yourself because you thought I wanted to live in neutral territory.”

Stiles reaches up to run a hand through his hair, and God knows what Derek thought he was going to do, but he grabs Stiles’s hand, forcing it back down. “I didn’t try to kill myself. I didn’t want to kill myself. And I planned to survive if I did have to—”

“Have to what?” Derek’s hand flexes around Stiles’s, almost to the point of pain. “What were you planning on doing, exactly? What was I going to come back to?”

“I don’t _know_.” Stiles takes in a deep, shuddering breath. “I don’t know what I was going to do. I was hoping it wouldn’t fucking come to that, because I don’t want to die. But what the fuck was I supposed to do? I was somewhere with no way out, and I couldn’t bluff to the Nemeton.”

“So you were willing to throw yourself away for that?”

“Better me than drag all of you down with me.”

Derek grabs his shoulder. “That’s not how it works.” He yanks Stiles towards him, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in Stiles’s shoulder. “What am I supposed to do if I lose you? I love you. What am I supposed to do if I lose you?”

Stiles frees his arms enough to hug Derek back. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” There’s wetness against his neck, and he realizes that Derek is crying against him, which means that he’s managed to make both Scott and Derek—the two most important people in his world—cry. “I’m sorry.”

After a few minutes, Derek says, “I need to…”

Stiles nods against him. “Anything.”

Derek lets go just enough to lean down and pick Stiles up, and Stiles can see tear tracks down his face. “I need to hold you and just—I love you. You’re not allowed to do that to yourself. You’re not allowed to.”

“I won’t. I promise.” Derek walks to the bedroom, dropping Stiles down on the bed then just drops down on top of him, covering his entire body. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Derek makes a noise against Stiles’s throat where he’s pressed. His hands are still turned, but his face feels human. “I need to hear your heartbeat.”

“Are you telling me to shut up?”

“Please.”

Stiles nods, then stops talking. He can shut up for a while if it helps Derek after what he put Derek through. And he needs this too, because it’s over and he still doesn’t know what to do with that. Because if the tree had called his bluff, if it had kept going, if it hadn’t cared, he would have gone through with it, because sometimes he makes decisions that he shouldn’t, and everything might have—

He really doesn’t want to think about that. Because he really doesn’t want to die. He has things to live for. He has people he would be leaving behind. And he likes living. And even though this was never about wanting to die, he could have.

Finally, Derek says, “I need to you know you won’t do that again. I’m not going to be able to do this if I’m always afraid that you’re going to decide that the best way to deal with something is to kill yourself.”

Jesus. “I’m not. I won’t. I’ll find something else. I’ll find some other way to deal with it. I promise.”

“Okay.” Derek sucks a little on the side of Stiles’s neck, more territorial than sexual. “I trust you.” He goes to sucking on Stiles’s throat. “I’m probably going to keep you marked up for the next month,” he mumbles around a chunk of skin, “but I trust you.”

“I can live with that.” Derek’s teeth close in a bite of actual pain, and whoops, those were probably not the right words.

Derek slides one hand up his shirt, palm stopping over Stiles’s heart, and the two of them breathe.

\--

Evan walks into class before anybody else, stopping short when he spots Stiles. “You fixed it.”

Stiles looks up from the laptop in front of him where he’s trying to catch up on the work that’s gone to the wayside in the past week because it’s been such a goddamn shit show. “Yeah.”

“You—how did you do that? How did you make the territory neutral? Metaphysically, you shouldn’t have enough of a connection to the territory to consciously give it up.”

“It’s neutral, and that’s all that matters.”

Evan blinks at him. “That’s a lie.”

Stiles presses his lips together, because he doesn’t really want to talk about this. “It’s neutral, right?”

“Yes.”

“So there you go.” Other students start to walk into the classroom, and Stiles closes his laptop. “If anyone has a paper, you can put it up here on my laptop where I will inevitably knock it off before the end of class.”

A few people hand in papers, and Evan takes a seat without continuing the conversation, which is awesome. Cole comes in right before class is about to start, which is also awesome, because it means he doesn’t need to deal with him. Yet, at least.

Once everyone is seated, he says, “Today, as you should all know if you actually did the reading, we’re going to be discussing slurs and discrimination against humans who are involved in or with packs. As you’re all here, I’m going to assume you’re all okay talking about this, though if you need to leave, that’s fine, too. As I explained earlier, this is the one day that it’s okay to use slur words, though not towards. Everyone clear?”

Everyone nods.

“Okay, cool. First off,” Stiles starts, jumping to his feet and heading over to the board, “We’re going to start making a list of slurs, split up into categories. First category, slurs for humans who are part of a pack. Second category, slurs for humans who are pack affiliated. Third category, slurs for humans who are having sex with werewolves. Any other categories that you can think of before we start?”

Lina puts her hand up. “There are some terms for humans that are, you know, friends with werewolves or who hang out with them without actually being affiliated with a pack. I got called a few of those. And one for humans who are planning on being turned.”

Stiles scrawls those last two categories up on the board, then says, “You can start calling words out with their category. There’s a reason I’m doing this; I’m not just going to make you listen to a bunch of slur words and then stare at them to be an asshole.”

There’s a second, and then Cole sticks his hand up. “I mean, the sort of standard term for humans who are, you know, sleeping with werewolves is glow whore.”

As Stiles is putting that up, Evan adds, “I’ve heard blood traitor for a human who’s part of a pack.”

Lina nods. “That’s actually for ones who are going to be turned, too. Like, you’re betraying your blood because you’re having it changed, stuff like that.”

“I’ve heard, uh, silver eater,” Allen puts in, “for pack humans. Which never really made sense, because if you were going to go after anyone in a pack with silver, it wouldn’t be the human.”

Cole adds, “Humans who are going to be changed are called fangers.”

“Which goes with fang bangers for humans having sex with werewolves.”

They end up with about half a dozen terms for each category, some of them crossing over, which is honestly kind of horrifying. And he knows there are more, has heard more, but he’s starting to get sick of this exercise, and it’s clear that they are, too.

He sits back down then says, “What we’re going to do now is look at them and try to see trends. What ideas do we see within categories? What do we see across categories?”

Lina’s the first one to raise her hand. “I mean, so, I’ve been called a lot of these, whee, fun, and for the stuff of, you know, sleeping with werewolves, the thing that you see up there is about, like, physical attributes of werewolves. Fangs and the eye glow and stuff like that. Which is I think—and this could be reaching—a sort of othering of werewolves. Like, you’re—we’re—not having sex with another person, but with, I don’t know, a pair of glowing eyes or some fangs. And it sort of makes it seem like we’re committing bestiality or something, because we’re not having sex with people.”

Stiles nods. “Good. Let’s stick with this category for a minute and work through it.”

Sarah says, “The article by Johnson talks about that a bit, about how a lot of those slurs come out of the history of humans having sex with werewolves being considered bestiality, and so to the people then the phrases actually were from that.”

“I know we’re talking about that category,” Allen says, “but actually, can someone explain the silver eater thing to me? Because that never made sense.”

Stiles nods. “Silver eater is actually…I’m surprised you heard that for just a human in a werewolf pack, because it originated in being used for humans who were going to be turned into werewolves. The idea is that they will soon be ‘eating’ a silver bullet. Essentially they were a dead man—or woman—walking; a Hunter couldn’t kill them when they were human, but especially a few decades ago, it was pretty easy to claim self-defense, and so Hunters could kill newly changed werewolves fairly easily. Hence, they were going to eat silver, and it was only a matter of time.”

Cole blinks at him. “Jesus.”

Yeah, it wasn’t fun. “Well I’m just going to point one out—what do you all think of the term blood traitor?”

\--

Cole stays after class, hovering next to Stiles’s seat as everyone streams out of the room. Once everyone’s gone, he asks, “What did you do?”

Stiles looks over at him from erasing the board. “It doesn’t matter.” He could pretend not to know what Cole is talking about, but they both know he does.

“But how did you do it?” Cole taps on the table. “What did you do?”

Stiles finishes erasing the board, then turns all the way to look at him. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t need to worry about it.”

Cole’s jaw clenches. “This is our territory, too, now, as much as it’s yours. So we should know what’s going on.”

Stiles runs a hand across his face. “I don’t want to talk about it, and frankly, it’s none of your business.”

“You don’t need to treat us like kids.”

Oh, hell. “You are kids.”

“When you were my age you had killed a rogue already. So how can you say that I’m a kid?”

“Because you haven’t seen what I’ve seen and done what I’ve done. And that’s fine. That’s good. I wouldn’t wish what I’ve gone through on anyone, much less all of you. And the things that have happened, yeah, you’ve grown up. But compared to where I was when I was your age, you are young. And even if you weren’t, you’re not in my pack, and it’s not my job to tell you what happened. So don’t worry about it.”

Cole grimaces, and while he’s not saying anything, Stiles heads out of the room. He’s not about to explain what happened to Cole or to Evan or to anyone else. They don’t need to know.

Lydia finds him in his office half an hour later, shutting and locking the door behind her as she walks in. Which is not a fantastic sign, and could mean anything from ‘she’s planning on trying to seduce him’ (unlikely) to ‘she’s about to give him a lecture’ (more likely) to ‘someone died and she wants to break it to him gently’ (unfortunately likely).

So he doesn’t look at her when he asks, “What do you need?”

“Would you have told me?”

Shit. Stiles sags in his chair, really not wanting to have this conversation; it’s one that needs to happen, but he’s exhausted and in a pissy mood and if he could turn back time he would have—

He would have done exactly the same thing, right down to drowning himself in ice water and opening up that goddamn door.

“I was planning on living through it if I tried.”

Her heels click, and then there’s a noise as she—presumably—sits down in the other seat in the room. “You and I both know you could have found a way to do that without calling me. Call 911, give them what you’re about to do, get a time frame. You’re smart enough to do it. Would you have told me?”

Stiles scrubs a hand across his mouth, turning in his chair to look at her. She’s sitting down, reclining, legs crossed, and if he didn’t know her (didn’t know her better than his own two hands, hadn’t been through hell with her and kept going because there’s nothing else you can do but walk, because there’s nowhere to lay down and die) he would think she’s relaxed. “Yeah.”

She nods. “Good.”

He waits, but nothing else comes. “That’s it? No lecture? No recriminations? No telling me what I did was fucking stupid?”

Lydia shrugs. “You didn’t do it.”

“And that’s what you care about?”

Lydia holds up one perfectly manicured hand. “I care that we’re alive”—one finger goes up—“and that the pack is whole.” The second finger goes up. “I care that the territory is neutral only insomuch as that it being neutral makes you happy. I can’t feel territory ownership, and even if I could, I would happily live in your territory.” She tucks her hand back in her lap. “I’ve threatened a lot of things in my life, and most of them I would have carried out, and some of them I would have regretted. Am I going to judge you for doing the same? Hardly.”

Stiles buries his head in his hands, because he hates that they can sit here and hold this conversation and neither of them blink (because they have threatened worse, both of them, and done it). “I promised Derek I would never do it.”

“Good.” He looks up at her. “I very much want you alive, Stiles. You should know this by now. I won’t shame you for what you threatened, but I don’t want you to do it.” She uncrosses her legs and gets to her feet, walking over to him. He tilts her head up to look at her as she stands over him, and she leans down to kiss his forehead. “Call Scott; he wants to talk to you.” And then she heads over to the door, unlocks it, and leaves.

Stiles takes a second, then pulls out his phone, wiping off the lipstick from his forehead with his other hand. He calls Scott, then puts it up to his ear.

It takes Scott a couple rings to pick up—probably because he’s at work, whoops—and he answers with a hurried, “Yeah, what’s up?”

“Lydia told me you wanted to call.”

Scott’s silent for a beat, and then he says, “Yeah, yes, right. Uh, one sec.” There’s a rustling noise and then a crash, presumably as Scott jams the phone against his chest and then drops it because Scott is not always a functional person, followed by some talking that Stiles can’t make out and then Scott’s voice saying, “Okay. Sorry. Deaton’s having kittens.”

Um. “What?”

“Deaton’s—there are kittens. There’s a cat, and there are kittens, and Deaton is helping the cat with the kittens. There are kittens.”

Stiles snorts. “Okay. What’s up?”

“I want you to come home this weekend.”

That’s both not surprising and—though it should have been—not what Stiles was expecting to hear. “Okay. I can drive up Friday night or Saturday morning.”

“Aim for Friday. And bring Derek.”

“Oh.” Stiles starts to smile. “It’s time?”

“Yeah. It’s time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter to go in the main story. (There will be more short pieces, I promise. Plus a ridiculous ensemble/crossover Sentinel & Guide story, but that'll be mostly Gen.)


	25. Chapter 25

For the first time ever, Stiles feels the passage between the NCU territory—his territory—and the unclaimed territory between it and the Beacon Hills territory. It hits him, almost-pain like adhesive stretching away, away, until it snaps, and he breathes through it until all he feels is unclaimed territory.

And then he grins.

Derek glances at him from where he’s driving (control freak that he is). “What are you so excited about?”

“Pack, and also hopefully I can see my dad on Sunday before we head back.” He starts to grin wider and stops himself so he doesn’t look too suspicious. Because Derek might not say yes, and he doesn’t want to spoil the surprise, and he’s just going to stop thinking about it.

Instead, he presses his palm to the hickey just below his neck, relishing in the little bit of pain from the bruise. Derek smirks at him. “You like that?”

Stiles laughs. “You know I do, and I know you like it.” He moves his other hand down to the inside of his thigh. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have left so many here, either. Because it’s not like you can look at them, most of the time.”

“I could make you show me right now.”

“But then how would you concentrate on driving? You wouldn’t want to crash, now would you?” Derek stares out the windshield for a moment, then bares his teeth, growling. Stiles laughs. “Later. It’s not like they’re going away any time soon.”

He strokes his hand across his thigh, just to see Derek’s pupils flare wide, and then Derek says, “If you keep doing that, I really will crash.”

Stiles waits a second, then moves his hand away. “If you insist.”

Derek keep staring out the windshield, and then he says, “Once I get you in a bed, I’m going to tie you down on your stomach with just enough play so you can fuck yourself against the mattress but not enough so that you can get off.” Just like that, he gets hard, his jeans suddenly too tight; he starts to press his palm against it, then stops when Derek tsks and says, “Hands out of your lap, remember.”

“Seriously?”

Derek’s lips twitch up at the edge. “If I have to sit in this car filled with the smell of your arousal, you don’t get any relief, either.”

\--

Liam is waiting for them in front of the apartment, and he has Stiles out of the car and into a hug almost before Derek has the car in park. “Allison told me to tell you that if you ever pull that shit again she’s disowning you. But she didn’t tell me what ‘that shit’ was.” He pulls away just enough to look at Stiles from arm’s length, and as always, Stiles is a little bit astounded that he looks like a real adult. Because there was always a chance none of them would make it to adulthood. Liam wrinkles his nose. “Were you two fucking in there, or what?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “How do you still not know the difference between arousal and semen?”

Liam recoils, letting go. “Ew. Okay. Too much.”

Stiles grins, patting his chest. “All in good time, my angry friend. Or not. Whatever you want.” He leans forward to plant a sloppy kiss on Liam’s cheek, just to be a dick, and Liam grimaces, wiping off the spit.

“I’m straight, you know. I’m just waiting.”

Stiles nods, throwing an arm over his shoulder. Derek has grabbed the stuff from the car, and Stiles would try to take his, but Derek is looking obstinate again. As per usual. “Cool. Where is our glorious overlord?”

“Everyone’s inside. Lydia got here about an hour ago, and Isaac flew in from France last week.” Liam glances over at Derek. “Hey.”

Derek nods. “Hi.” He looks at Stiles. “If this is a pack meeting, are you sure you want me here?”

“Yep.” Stiles touches the inside of Derek’s wrist. “Scott’s request.”

They get inside, and Liam splits off as Scott, so close to the door that they almost walk into him, grabs Stiles’s chin. Stiles holds still, because Scott is in alpha mode at the moment, and pissing him off would not be a great idea.

They stand there for a moment, and then Scott’s eyes flare red; Stiles bares his throat, and Scott nods. And then lets go to wrap Stiles is a hug, so tight it almost hurts. “You know what I’m going to say.”

“Yeah.”

“So you don’t need me to say it.”

“No.”

Scott pulls away, offering a smile to Derek. “Sorry about that. Small difference of opinion had to be resolved.”

Derek nods. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Yeah.” Scott looks at Stiles. “I think everyone wants a little time with you.”

“That sounds ominous.”

Allison peeks her head in the room. “You get bottom. You’ve been warned.”

“Why am I always bottom?” Derek smirks at him, and he grimaces. “Oh, shut up.”

Scott clears his throat. “Derek, if you wouldn’t mind talking to me for a couple minutes? Nothing major; I just have a couple questions for you.”

Derek shrugs. “Yeah, sure.” He looks at Stiles, then leans over to give him a kiss. “Don’t get squished.”

“My pack would never squish me.” He looks at Liam. “Except maybe him.”

Liam shoves at his shoulder. “Dick.”

“Behave.” Scott looks at them in that amazing Alpha way of looking at everyone at once. “And don’t listen past the white noise generator.”

With that, he nods to Derek, who sets their bags down and then follows Scott upstairs. Liam starts manhandling Stiles into the living room, with the rest of them following behind, and Lydia pushes Stiles down on one of the two mattresses sitting on the floor. She curls up against him, with Allison and Isaac on the other side. Liam sprawls across his and Lydia’s legs, with Kira near their head and Malia across Allison and Isaac.

It’s not really the most comfortable thing ever, especially because they’re basically all on top of each other, but it only takes a few seconds for the endorphins to kick in, and then he closes his eyes and buries his face in Lydia’s hair and breathes in the scent of pack.

Eventually, Isaac asks, “What’s Scott asking—oh.”

Liam shifts. “Is that—”

“Yeah.”

There are footsteps, and Stiles tries to get up, but Allison’s arm tightens against him until he can’t move. Because her arms are really goddamn strong. So he opens his eyes instead, to see Scott and Derek standing over the mattress. Derek is crying.

Fuck.

Stiles starts to struggle in earnest to get up now, because he fucked up and he doesn’t know how to fix it, but he needs to. “Allison, get off me.” She shifts, and he sits up, looking at Derek. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I shouldn’t have assumed. I’m sorry.”

Liam moves so he can look at Stiles. “What are you talking about?”

Stiles doesn’t look away from the tears tracking down Derek’s face. “Scott asked if I wanted Derek to be pack affiliated, but he said—”

“Yes.”

“—yes?” Stiles blinks up at Derek. “Wait, you said yes?” Derek nods. “Oh, fuck.” Stiles jumps to his feet, displacing Liam and Malia, and almost before he’s all the way standing he scrambles over them so he can jump on Derek.

Derek catches him, lifting him off his feet a little, and when Stiles kisses him he tastes like salt. “Thank you. Thank you.”

Stiles pulls away just enough to reach up and touch his cheek. “Why are you crying?”

“I told you I missed having a pack like yours, so you gave me one. Thank you.” He cups Stiles’s cheek and kisses him. “I love you.” He’s crying still, and Scott reaches over and puts a hand on the back of Derek’s head. A noise comes from Derek’s throat. “Thank you.”

Scott says, “Come join us.” He turns towards the mattresses on the floor. “Just to confirm, Derek is pack affiliated now. I would ask if you’re all okay with this, but this is a dictatorship, and I’m your benevolent overlord.”

“I’m cool with it,” Isaac says from where he’s sitting, Allison cuddling against his chest. “Welcome to the pack. Or whatever. Want a scarf?”

Derek looks at him. “What?”

“A scarf. I make scarves. I can knit you a scarf.” Isaac glances at Scott. “Can I knit him a scarf?”

Scott shrugs. “I don’t care.”

“Cool. You’re getting a scarf.”

Derek tucks Stiles against his side, asking, “Just like that?”

Lydia’s the one who answers him. “You being affiliated with the pack makes everything easier. This way, Stiles won’t have to choose between you and pack. And he loves you.” She looks at Stiles. “And I trust you.” She’s talking to Derek still.

Kira nods. “And she doesn’t trust anyone outside of this room. So take that as a compliment.”

“I do.” Derek’s hand closes around Stiles’s hip. “Thank you to all of you. I know I agreed to the affiliation with Scott, but I just wanted to say that I’m affiliated to you, too.”

Stiles buries his face against Derek’s shoulder, because he’s about to start crying, and this is ridiculous. But this is also permanent in a way he never thought he was going to get, because by the time he was seventeen he didn’t think he would live to see twenty, and now they’re at the end of the tunnel and the light isn’t a fire, and the enemies are done, and everyone he loves is in the same room, and they’re all going to live.

They’re all going to live.

\--

“So.” Stiles’s dad takes a bite of steak, then points his fork at Derek. “You’re one of us now?” Derek nods. “And your sister didn’t have a problem with that, you joining another pack?”

Derek shakes his head. “As long as I’m just pack affiliated, it’s not a problem. And besides, Stiles is technically affiliated with the Pack Alliance. So she and Scott basically traded.”

“Except being affiliated with the Pack Alliance isn’t technically the same thing as being affiliated with a pack.” There’s silence, and Stiles looks up from his food to see Derek and his dad staring at him. “Because the Pack Alliance affiliation is based on debt more than on—never mind. Yeah. They traded. We got Derek. Yay. Everyone’s excited. I’m excited. We can have celebratory sex later.”

His dad grimaces. “I didn’t need to know that.”

Right. Yes. “Sorry.”

They go back to eating, and Stiles doesn’t even make too many faces at the fact that his dad is eating steak _and_ mashed potatoes (with some parsnips mashed inside too, shh). And Derek’s knee is nudging against his, and Stiles brushes his fingers against Derek’s knee. And he loves him so goddamn much.

When he looks up from his food again, his dad is smiling. “So. Any plans for a wedding?”

Stiles chokes on a piece of steak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done.
> 
> You're welcome.


End file.
